Normalcy Undone
by Era-Age
Summary: The life of potions and ingredients at the University was a world away from the harsh terrain of Skyrim. With fate ushered in by a prophecy as ancient as the Elder Scrolls, a hero must answer his calling. But when a rebellion, betrayal, and Civil War disrupt Skyrim, such prophecies are better handled with company- even if this unlikely bunch has no idea what they are in for.
1. Prologue

Skyrim belongs to Bethesda. Any character you do not recognize (any OC) belongs to me.

* * *

"And thus it is imperative that we remain faithful in our beliefs! The Imperials see us as nothing more than dogs fighting for our territory—see Skyrim's lines as part of the rest of the Empire and therefore rightfully theirs! They like to think they know much about Skyrim; they berate our lifestyle, they claim our land, they insult the courage of our warriors! But they are blind to their own follies! Whilst we remember Akatosh and the One, they shun Talos' name, refusing it to even be whispered among their people! While we remember the true Nordic way of life, they choose to enslave themselves to the Thalmor!"

Shêza shifted on her heels and sighed. She glanced around at the people crowded around her, trying to find signs that they were as annoyed as she was. Most of them stared at the ground, whether in deep thought or ignoring the Stormcloaks, she couldn't tell. Only a small handful had scowls smothering their faces and arms crossed indignantly. She couldn't blame them, either. She was already late returning to Whiterun before the troupe of Stormcloaks halted her and others on the road. They had reasoned their actions with the excuse of, "Listen if you love Skyrim and if your Nordic blood is true."

Shêza rolled her eyes. Of _course _she loved Skyrim with every breath she took for her seven and twenty winters—she would love it even more if that damned Ulfric Stormcloak didn't send his men to terrorize merchants and travelers.

'_Besides,' _she thought with an amused smirk, '_I bet the Khajiiti are just speechless for standing around in the drizzle for so long.' _She looked over at the cat-people and had to bite back a bark of laughter. '_Poor kitties, all hissy from being wet.' _

"The _mer _are corrupt! The Thalmor spread their poisons throughout the minds of their kind, warping them into tools to use against us! They use their magic to harm Man, not to aid us! They have even laid claim to Winterhold!"

Shêza adjusted the deer slung over her shoulder. She needed to be back at Whiterun at once! The Jarl would be curious as to her whereabouts, and even displeased since she promised to hunt his little boy a fresh, sturdy buck for his birthday. Oh, she could only imagine what new words Farengar was conjuring up from her tardiness, that busy-bodied mage.

The blood from the deer had already soaked through her fur trimmings and was making her leather greaves disgusting to be in. She'd have to spend extra time tonight scrubbing the blood out of her clothes, not something she wanted to do after such an exhausting day.

From the corner of her eye, she saw one of the cats give her a toothy grin.

Typical.

She glowered at the Khajiit, wrinkling her nose and giving an audible sniff. She was familiar with what wet fur smelled like, and was sure the Khajiiti knew too, and took a small amount of pleasure in hearing the cat hiss from her manners.

Finally, after feeling her feet become clammy from standing in dirt for so long, the Stormcloaks gave them permission to leave. The crowd immediately dispersed, eager to be away from the soldiers and to return to their families. She snorted, finding irony in Ulfric's own enslavement of the people he vowed to protect and liberate. She huffed and sent one of Ulfric's hounds a glare, and in return, she received a long, scrutinizing look. She made to blend into the crowd and leave when the Stormcloak approached her, but was pulled back by a strong hand on her arm.

She felt her blood give off a jolt of adrenaline, and she pressed her lips together and curled her fingers into her deer as the Stormcloaks surrounded her.

"Very bold of you to show such disdain toward the Stormcloaks," the man said with an accusatory tone in his voice.

Shêza frowned and stayed her ground. She kept her eyes on the Stormcloak but remained acutely aware of his fellow soldiers closing in on her. Six—there were six of them in total. "And how bold of Ulfric to send his little lapdogs to nip at Skyrim's heels."

The Stormcloak took a step forward, his fingers once again digging into the pale flesh of her arm. "Ulfric is to be High King! You will not speak about your king in such a way! Are you Skyrim-borne or not?"

She jerked her arm free and held onto her deer with both hands. "He is not king yet, and until he shows some respect to Skyrim's people, he will never be my king."

The Stormcloak let off a chilling chuckle. "Brave words for just one person—"

"And Ulfric was just one person to murder former King Torygg," she countered.

He continued as if she hadn't even spoken. "You are just a huntswoman with only a bow to defend herself against Ulfric's men." He gave her a cursory glance, taking in her rugged greaves, bare feet, and homespun poncho that had seen better days. "And a peasant woman, no less," he added, laughing with his comrades.

Shêza took a step back and bumped into a soldier's chest. She whirled away from him, only to jostle against another soldier. Her blood raced through her veins and an ache built inside of her gums. Her head snapped to and fro as she tried to keep an eye on all men. She never liked the feeling of being trapped and cornered, and her beastblood _especially _didn't like it, either.

"Of course there is a way for the peasant woman to repent for her harsh words," he leered. Shêza sucked in a breath and steeled herself as the man brushed his knuckles against her cheek. She resisted the urge to bite his hand off at the wrist, eying the exposed skin with a primal longing. He grinned, seeming to like the rage dancing behind her eyes. He lowered his hand to weave his fingers in the deer's hide.

'_Oh, no you don't,' _she silently warned.

Her muscles coiled when he made to pull it off her shoulder, and only when she heard a soldier draw his sword did she let the Stormcloak take the deer, albeit reluctantly.

He smiled again and assessed his prize. "A fine wager, is it not?"

"Keep it, dog," she growled. He laughed again, and she pushed through the wall of Stormcloaks. They let her pass and crowded around the deer.

"This will make the ride back to Helgen much more leisurely!" they called after her.

"Hope you choke on it, sons of bitches," she muttered as she trudged onward to Whiterun.

No, Jarl Balgruuf would not be pleased at all. Shêza shuddered; she could just see the scowl on Irileth's face from returning empty-handed.


	2. Riverwood: Village of Love

Skyrim belongs to Bethesda. Any OC belongs to me. Enjoy!

* * *

The Sleeping Giant tavern in Riverwood was especially crowded that evening; all of the townspeople gathered around Ralof and his companion. He and his new-found friend had stumbled in Riverwood not an hour ago, bruised and covered with dirt and scrapes. The other man had a nasty gash on his leg that required immediate attention.

As they listened to Ralof's daring and tragic escape from the city of Helgen just south of them, more than a few eyes darted to the stranger next to him. As he continued to ramble on about their narrow escape from the dragon, occasionally taking a long swig of his ale to calm his jittery nerves, the other man stared off at the farthest wall, seemingly oblivious to Camilla Valerius tending to his wounded leg. He didn't even flinch as she dabbed mead against the wound.

Riverwood was a small community, and each townsperson knew the other. No one had ever seen this man before in their lives, and the people were none too trusting when the stranger gave no comments concerning their identity. Sven and Faendal exchanged suspicious glances.

More importantly—at least to the Nords—they didn't appreciate the man's pointed ears. The elven blood in him quietly stirred the crowd and made them hesitant to trust this man. He didn't need to look at them to see the accusations in their stares. They probably thought he was a spy for the Thalmor.

However, his sturdy shoulders, though slumped with exhaustion, told that he had more than an elven inheritance to him.

"I told you all I saw a dragon," Hilde declared in her raspy voice. "But no, no one ever believes me anymore."

"Mother, please," Sven sighed. "Let Ralof continue." Hilde grumbled, but settled back into her seat.

Ralof nodded. "My friend and I barely made it out of Helgen alive. Almost got taken out by a mother bear in Helgen's dwellings, too. You should have seen him with that bow, though! As if it was an extension of his arm! A beautiful shot—struck the beast right between the eyes just when it was about to take a swipe at me."

Faendal raised his eyebrows at this and gave the stranger a respectful look. "An archer, then? That's the elven blood in him. Nothing Nordic about archery."

Sven glowered and cracked his knuckles. "Oh, is that so? And there isn't anything elven about pummeling someone's skull in with their fists."

"Would you two put your quarreling aside for just _one _night?" Gerdur snapped from her place at Ralof's side. "My brother and his friend are the only ones to walk into Riverwood after Helgen's destruction, and you two still bicker like children over sweetrolls!"

Ralof's head snapped toward his sister. "Are we really the only survivors, Gerdur?"

She hung her head. "I'm afraid so, at least, as far as I know." Ralof motioned for Orgnar to pass him another ale.

"That's right," Alvor the blacksmith said, putting an arm around Sigrid. "Our Dorthe kept watch all day on the southern wall. No one else besides Ralof and..." he nodded toward the other man, "came through today."

Camilla finished bandaging the wound and gave his leg a pat. "There. Try to keep off it for a few days."

He inclined his head and murmured a thanks to her before resuming his motions of staring into space.

Sven huffed and crossed his arms. "How do we know we can even trust this... this stranger? He's an outsider! We don't know if he's an Imperial spy, or worse, a Thalmor agent! Look at those ears!"

Faendal bristled and raised a hand to finger the feathered ends of his arrows. "What are you trying to say, bard? That _I'm _a Thalmor agent, too? You just can't compete with the elven folk, can you? Always trying to find something wrong with them to make yourself feel better."

Sven shuddered and took a step forward. "Why, you—"

"Sven is right," Alvor said. "We don't know who he is or if we can trust him. Yes, he saved Ralof's life, but what of his life prior to Helgen?"

Everyone in the inn shared murmurs of agreement and looked at Ralof for an explanation. The Stormcloak frowned.

"I will leave at once if my company unsettles you," the stranger said. He stood from his seat and winced as pain shot to his leg. "I thank you for your kindness." He smiled at Camilla before limping his way to the door.

"Now, you just hold on one moment." Gerdur blocked his path and pressed a hand to his shoulder when he tried to move past her. "I'm not sure how things are done where you come from, friend, but this is Skyrim. We show hospitality to those who need it, even strangers. Now, come. You may stay in my house and rest for as long as you like."

Hod almost spat his ale out and struggled to swallow. "W-what! He could be a murderer for all we know, and you just give him permission to traipse through our property like—"

Ralof waved him quiet. "Leave him alone, Hod, and respect Gerdur's wishes. It'll be the first thing you respect about your wife," Ralof added with a dry chuckle.

Hod glared and shook his head, not liking the idea of this half-breed sharing his roof even for one night.

* * *

"It isn't much," Gerdur said as she escorted him into her home. Ralof had his arm slung over his shoulder, helping him keep some weight off of his bad leg. "But it's been home for as long as I can remember."

Ralof helped him to a seat and slid a bowl of dried meat and cheese toward him. "I'm sure this is your first decent meal in a long time. I'm sorry that we have little to offer you."

He smiled and bent his head. "You have my thanks for all that you've done for me. I'm sorry for causing such a disturbance. I imagine that a small village like this one rarely receives such excitement. I understand how it can rally the people."

Gerdur nodded and busied herself with lining furs along a spare cot. "Riverwood only has merchants and the occasional hunter travel here. Mainly the hunters go to Whiterun to make a profit off of their game, as the Jarl favors their skills." Gerdur stopped and turned toward her brother. "There's still water left from this afternoon. You should take advantage of it, Ralof, and clean yourself up. You, too, stranger."

"Isben," he said. "My name's Isben."

* * *

Isben leaned against Gerdur's fence, his eyes closed as he enjoyed the fresh breeze. The nights before were filled with horrible nightmares of that... that beast—that _dragon. _He could still feel the heat of its fires on his face and still had its terrible, spindly face imprinted in his mind. He almost wished that he'd have been beheaded so that he wouldn't have to keep seeing that awful creature.

He sighed and rubbed his forehead. All he wanted was to cross the border to go back home, but those damned Imperials caught him before he could make it across.

"You're finally up, I see."

Isben opened his eyes and saw Faendal walking toward him, a cheerful grin on his face.

"It's about time," the elf said. "It's been three days. Thought a fever got to you."

Isben shrugged as Faendal stood next to him. "A fever would be better than the nightmares."

"Was it really that bad?" Faendal asked. "I mean, I can't imagine anything like a dragon! I know Hod probably interrogated you already about what you saw and what happened, but I'd like to know. It could be our elven secret!"

"There aren't many elves around Riverwood, are there?"

"Only me," Faendal said. "I'm sure Sven wishes I'd leave. Pah, what does he know anyway? All he does is sing sweet songs about love and romance because he doesn't have any in his life."

Isben picked at the fence. "Because words never wooed a person before, right?"

Faendal blanched and glanced around nervously. "You don't think she'd be fooled by his lyrics, do you? Camilla is smart and beautiful, she'd never fall for Sven's illusions!"

Isben's mind drifted off as Faendal continued to chat. He felt no need to involve himself in a lover's quarrel, especially right after a dragon attack. He was sure there were far more pressing issues at hand.

"—She has to see how foolish it would be to let him court her! Hey, I know!" Faendal beamed and clasped Isben on the shoulder. "You're new around here; no one really knows who you are. If I tried to persuade Camilla that Sven was no good, she'd dismiss me and think I was crazy. But you, you're unknown. You could talk to her for me, maybe help her see that she deserves a better man than Sven. A man like me. What do you say?"

"You want me to woo your lover for you?" Isben raised a brow and blinked at him. "I almost had my buns burned off by a dragon three days ago, and you're trusting a complete stranger to court someone you're too afraid to?"

Faendal twitched and squared his shoulders. "I'm not afraid, I just know what will and what won't work. How about if I sweeten the deal? You help me with Camilla, and I'll teach you a thing or two about archery. How's that?"

Isben narrowed his eyes and took a step away from Faendal. "You swear on your life you'll help me with archery?"

The elf seemed confused and rubbed the back of his head. "Sure! You seem to already know the basics, according to Ralof, so there's no harm in honing your skills, now is there?"

Isben paused, contemplating the offer, then finally nodded. "It's a deal."

* * *

He sat on a stump near the river's edge, washing his face with a rag. All his life, he'd heard rumors of Skyrim being unbearably cold. Rumor had it that a man could freeze to death if he didn't wear the proper furs. Riverwood, however, was unbearably _hot. _He'd stripped of his leather armor for a loose pair of breeches and tunic. His boots had even proven to be uncomfortable, and he had left those as Gerdur's house as well. All he wanted to do was jump in the river and marinate in the cool water.

He didn't find it a bad idea and was actually beginning to stand and leap in the water when he heard a feminine voice behind him.

"Isben? You're Isben, right? The survivor from Helgen?" Camilla smiled and walked up to him, perhaps adding an unnecessary sway to her hips.

"Thank you for seeing to my injury. My leg feels better already."

She smiled and took his place on the stump. "I'm glad to hear that. I'm not a girl that likes things limp." She batted her eyelashes at him. "I'm Camilla. I work with my brother, Lucan, at the Riverwood Trader."

Isben inwardly groaned and shook his head. So this is the girl that Faendal was head over heels for. He should have told the elf that he was a cannibal to avoid this mess.

"You should stop by," she added when he didn't reply. "It'd be a shame for a strapping young man such as yourself to be a stranger, now wouldn't it?"

"Faendal is far more than strapping and has no limp." Isben thought for a moment, scratching his stubble before saying, "Actually, he's ramrod straight."

Camilla seemed doubtful. "And you would know this how?"

Isben tossed a stone in the river, watching it bounce across the surface. "Word travels fast in a small town like this, and when all you can do is sit around, waiting for your leg to completely heal, you tend to hear a few things. Also heard that Sven limps on occasion."

"Does he now?" Camilla approached Isben with a scowl on her face and her arms stiffly at her sides. "What else did you hear about Sven?"

"Interested in him, are you?"

Camilla snorted. "I'm surprised you didn't hear how he writes me ballads nearly every week! He's a real sweetheart, that Sven. So sweet that I wouldn't mind marrying him."

"Marrying Sven?" Isben laughed and tossed another stone. "Don't tell me you haven't heard about Sven? Oh, poor dear, I've only been here for a few days, and _I _even know about Sven." He could hear Camilla shift from foot to foot, obviously at conflict whether or not to pry or remain indifferent.

She took the bait like a starved slaughterfish. "What... what about Sven?"

"Oh, you know, it's rather common with men who've been babied by their mothers their entire life. Now, I don't mean any disrespect to Hilde. Though she seems a bit batty, I'm sure she's a very pleasant woman underneath her gruff exterior. Sven's been sheltered his entire life, having mother dearest provide everything for him. It's only natural that he'll expect his dear wife to do the same for him." He sighed and leaned against a tree trunk. "He'll want a little woman who cleans for him, cooks for him, washes his clothes for him, the typical coddled-man privileges."

Isben pushed himself off the tree and slowly circled Camilla. "And you, Camilla—or do you prefer 'Mrs. Sven'?—would be thrusting yourself in that very situation if you ever married that Sven lad." He hid his grin when he saw her clench her fists.

"Is that all marriage is to him?" she growled out. "That pig-headed, spoiled, self-centered..!" She threw her shoulders back, standing tall. "I won't waste my time with that loafer anymore. Perhaps Faendal _is _the man for me." She sashayed away, her hips still swinging a bit too dramatically.

Isben rolled his eyes. What a bother! He traded in fried dragon-meal for the life of a counselor!

_Eugh, _he needed out of this village sooner rather than later.


	3. Beasts and Prisoners

Skyrim belongs to Bethesda. Any OC belongs to moi.

* * *

"See, if you keep your wrists relaxed and feet spread apart, you'll be able to have much more control over the shot. If you tense your body, your arrow will be just as tense and likely miss its target. Understand?" Faendal let loose another arrow and smiled proudly when it hit the painted red center of the practice dummy.

"When you're hunting game," he continued, "especially deer, it's usually a good idea to aim for their legs. Now, if you're as good as me, well, you hit their necks every time." Isben watched as Faendal put an arrow through the makeshift knee of his target. "Cripple the game, and then finish it off with another arrow. Don't try to charge it blindly like these Nord-folk do; underestimating a wounded beast is foolhardy and will earn you a swift death."

Isben nodded and wasn't surprised when Faendal's next arrow embedded itself in the other knee.

Faendal slung his bow over his back, but not before giving another smug grin of his handiwork. "Now, it's your turn. Riverwood's outskirts are filled with deer, rabbits, and foxes. Take these arrows and see if you'll have any luck. If you need more, I'll be at the lumber mill chopping up logs. I have to get back before Gerdur chews my ear off again. Just stay clear of the poison-ivy northeast of town by the rapids. Good hunting!" Faendal clapped Isben on the shoulder before jogging away.

Isben sighed and slouched his shoulders. He held his bow in his hands, the feel of the coarse wood foreign to his fingers. He'd never even touched a bow until a few days ago. Saving Ralof from that bear was pure luck—how in Tamriel did Faendal expect him to bring back a dead animal?

He swallowed down a lump in his throat. He never did like corpses, and to heave a fresh carcass back to Riverwood made his blood turn cold.

Deciding that it never hurt to learn something new, he took off out of Riverwood, his bow still held awkwardly in his hands.

He kept his pace up, the sound of the lumber mill gradually fading away. He exhaled and stopped only when he was bathed in the sounds of pure nature. He felt his body relax, the song of birds chirping and the rustle of leaves doing wonders on his mind. It even helped banish thoughts of that dragon for the time being.

Leaves and twigs crunched under his boots as he walked in the center of a glade. He threw his head back, savoring the rays of the sun peeping through foliage. If he imagined himself detached from his body, he could still smell the musky scent of worn tomes, hear the quickened footsteps of apprentices scurrying back and forth in the courtyard, still see his organized work table with all of the ingredients placed just so.

He opened his eyes just as he heard a twig snap. Immediately, he fell into a crouch—more like a squat—and tightened his grip on his bow. Using the tall grass to his advantage, he crept toward where he heard the sound. Dried leaves still crunched under his feet, and he cringed and willed himself to be silent.

He almost fell over due to the effort he was exerting.

There, about twenty meters in front of him, stood a grazing elk, oblivious to his presence. Isben nocked an arrow, trying to do just as Faendal told him. Beads of sweat lined his brow and no matter how much he tried, the arrow still shook in his grasp. He fought to keep both arrow and bow straight and under control, but lost the battle as he accidentally released the arrow.

It whizzed away and plunged into the bark of a tree a good ten feet from the elk. Isben cursed as the elk immediately sprinted away from him. He made his way over to the tree and yanked the arrow out of it. Determined not to give up until he had at least a rabbit to return to Faendal with, he continued his hunt.

And never did his arrows meet their mark.

He was not used to sneaking around in the brush. His ankles would sometimes lock together as he made a step, and he'd fall over. He would scare away the deer by his loud footfalls before he even saw them. Or, he'd unknowingly stumble across birds that would take flight, giving away his position.

The sun was beginning to set as he followed the river north. He squinted his eyes and was able to make out a faint outline of what looked to be a temple of some sorts. He recalled seeing a map in Gerdur's house and assumed that that had to be Whiterun, home of Jarl Balgruuf.

Isben knelt by the riverside and slung his bow off his shoulder. Cupping his hands, he splashed water on his face and neck. He sighed and ran his hands through his brown hair, frowning when he felt how hot it was. It was probably a bit bleached, the damn sun.

He continued following the river, knowing it was as good a place as any to find game. He took another crouching stance when he spotted a fox farther ahead. He drew his bow, ready to try again at hunting. Oh, his ancestors made this look easy!

He was about to let fly another arrow when he noticed the poison-ivy surrounding the fox. Even if he killed it, Faendal warned him about wandering too far by the rapids. Isben shrugged. He'd dealt with itches and rashes before, and he knew a thing or two about creams that would fight the irritation. Finding Faendal's advice trivial, he released the arrow and almost shouted in victory when it lodged itself in the fox's neck. He stood and ran to claim his prize, but froze when he caught a glimpse of something big and black from the corner of his eye. He whirled around to face the beast, only to find nothing there.

Isben shook his head, certain it had all been his imagination. He pulled the arrow out of the fox, grimacing from the new wave of blood that poured from the wound. His stomach heaved and he clamped his mouth shut to resist hurling.

Soon a pile of barf was right beside the fox. Isben groaned and held his head between his hands. No, he didn't like dead things at all.

He scooped the fox up in his arms. His head whipped to the side when he swore he saw that black beast again.

But just like before, nothing was there. Isben willed his heart to stop hammering in his chest so that he'd be able to open his senses to his surroundings, but he heard nothing out of the ordinary. Just the rush of the river, the sound of the breeze, the absence of birds chirping—

Sweat trickled down his back. It wasn't normal for birds to be so quiet, especially by a forest. Isben slowly turned in a full circle, trying to place the source of his fears. He exhaled when all remained quiet around him.

'_It's just your mind playing tricks on you, Isb,' _he repeatedly chanted in his mind. Yes, that had to be it.

'_You're still a little hassled after the dragon attack. Everything's fine, everything's fine—'_

But everything was _not _fine, as a howl unlike anything he'd ever heard before tore through the air. Isben, dropping the fox, made a beeline back to Riverwood, hopping over fallen trees and sprinting through the long grass as if he was an athlete. He didn't dare look back to see if anything was chasing him.

Isben crossed the bridge into Riverwood and almost collided with Faendal. If he hadn't turned at the last second to avoid the elf, he knew he would have ran straight into him.

"There you are! I was just about to go looking for you," Faendal said. "I thought you'd be back hours ago. I see you couldn't hunt yourself anything," he chuckled. "Oh well, better luck next time."

Isben was doubled over, clutching his knees as he fiercely panted. When he gulped down enough air, he wheezed, "You...y-you didn't hear that... that _thing?" _

Faendal frowned. "Hear what?" He blanched as he whispered, "Was it a dragon?"

"N-no," Isben panted. "I don't know what it was; I didn't see it. But it sounded so close to me, and I left the fox in the ivy—"

"You went in the poison-ivy? I told you not to go there!" Faendal's face turned to one of fury. He stormed over to Isben and jabbed him in the shoulder. "None of the townspeople go there! Do you realize what you could have done? Augh, what's the point?" He threw his hands in the air and walked away. "You're just a damned newcomer. Of course I can't blame you for anything. When Riverwood's pillaged, all the blame will be put onto me, I just know it."

Isben stared after Faendal as he continued to rant to himself. After a while, when Faendal was out of sight and he could no longer hear him, he dragged his feet back to Gerdur's house. He was greeted with the scent of freshly baked bread when he walked in.

"Right in time for supper!" Ralof chuckled as he and Hod shared another drink. Isben did his best to smile and dumped his bow and quiver near his bed before joining them at the table. When Gerdur filled his plate with a slice of meat, he almost barfed again at the sight of it. All he could think of was the fox's twisted neck, the blood gushing out of the puncture his arrow made, the glassy, frozen eyes...

Gerdur quickly put the meat on Ralof's plate when she saw how sickly Isben looked. "We have fruit and vegetables, too," she said.

Isben nodded gratefully and made sure he only ate the bread and anything that was not meat.

"I know it's rude to ask anything of a guest," Gerdur said as she sat down next to Hod and their son, Frodnar, "but we were wondering if you could do us a favor, Isben."

He inclined his head. "You and your family have already showed me more than enough kindness, Gerdur. Whatever you want, I will do my best to please you."

She smiled and pointedly ignored the glare Hod gave him. "As you probably already noticed, Riverwood has very little protection. All we have is the north and south walls. If another dragon attacks, it's very unlikely that Riverwood will be able to hold her ground. I'm afraid we'd meet the same fate as Helgen."

Ralof nodded and put his mug of mead down. "If you're traveling north, it would mean a lot to us if you stopped by Whiterun and informed the Jarl of Riverwood's predicament. We need his protection if we are to survive a dragon attack. I'm sure all of Skyrim would benefit if you told him of Helgen, as well."

Isben paused. He knew that volunteering for anything, even unknowingly, was unwise. If he chose to help these people, who knew where that would lead him.

But it wasn't as if he could go back. He'd be a fool to think he could cross the border back into Cyrodiil without any repercussions. The border was crawling with Imperials, and he had already been subjected to Imperial hospitality.

That wasn't something he wanted to endure again.

"I will leave in the morning," he said. He found himself smiling when Gerdur and Ralof beamed at him. He was glad to be of help, and even more giddy when he realized he'd be away from the pettiness of a bored, quaint village.

* * *

He left before the rest of Riverwood was even awake. The mill was quiet for once, and children and their pups weren't heard playing in the cobbled streets. Isben left a note, thanking Gerdur and Ralof for their hospitality. He purposely left Hod out of the note.

As for Faendal, he sent a silent prayer to the Eight and One that the man would somehow find a way to live in peace with Camilla.

Gerdur had left him a knapsack filled with food and supplies. Isben couldn't help but feel guilty of all the trouble the village was going through for him. He promised that as soon as he could, he'd return the favor.

The road to Whiterun was a quiet one. Isben stayed clear of the river, occasionally wandering off of the path but never having it leave his sights. If that monster came for him again, he'd scream himself hoarse to alert Riverwood of the danger. He shuddered; he didn't even want to think of something so vicious so close to that little town. He hoped Gerdur and Hod kept their boy under a close watch.

Isben raised his eyebrows when a troupe of elves came marching toward him. With their haughty and arrogant expressions pointed right at him, he moved to the side to allow them to pass. He wasn't too keen on picking a fight with elves; they had magic that they could use expertly against him. He gave the small group another look, his hands clenching into fists when he realized that in the middle of the mob was a beaten man with his hands tied behind his back.

They had taken him prisoner, just as the Imperials had done to him.

Isben strode over to the elves, his blood boiling. The last one in the line stopped and gave Isben a disgusted look. "This is strictly Thalmor business. Move yourself along before we deem you a threat."

_Thalmor. _Of course. In Cyrodiil, the Aldmeri Dominion had taken over the Arcane University, choosing to apprentice elves of their Order over anyone of a different race. Even those Imperial novices that showed great potential were given the cold shoulder and sent home.

Apparently, in Skyrim, the Thalmor were even more of a problem.

Isben slowly walked away from the group. When the Thalmor turned and continued marching with his fellow comrades, Isben drew his bow, nocked an arrow, and released it.

It landed just short of the Thalmor's heels. The elf turned, hearing the arrow make contact with the cobbles, and shouted in rage when he realized what Isben had tried to do.

The other Thalmor were quick to draw their weapons. The leader of the troupe fell back. His hands glowed with magicka as he conjured up a shield wall and shot a fireball at Isben.

Isben rolled out of the way, feeling the heat of the fire as it scorched the ground he stood on not a moment ago. He swore and readied another arrow. His grip was poor and his aim even worse, as his arrow flew straight over the closest Thalmor's head. The elf laughed and continued to charge Isben.

He moved to the side just as the Thalmor brought his axe down. The Thalmor cursed as his axe wouldn't budge from the cobblestones, and Isben used the opportunity to pull an arrow from his quiver and stab the Thalmor in the neck. The man gurgled and choked on his own blood, the elven armor he wore not providing any protection for the jugular, and crumpled to the ground.

Isben ignored the violent leap his stomach made at the sight of more blood. He turned in time to see the caster weave another spell and aim it directly at Isben's feet. He slipped as the ice formed and fell hard on his back. He winced and brought his bow up just in time to block an incoming attack from the other Thalmor.

The Thalmor's sword cracked his bow in half. Isben brought his foot up and kicked the elf square in the stomach. The elf fell back, an _oof! _escaping his lips before he landed with a thud. Isben stole the moment to leap on the elf, another arrow in his hand to end the man's life with.

The Thalmor was not ready to give up, though. His hands wrapped around Isben's wrists, halting him from stabbing him with the arrow. Both men struggled to gain the upper hand, their faces twisted in gruesome snarls. Isben was bested when the elf brought his knee up into his gut, narrowly avoiding his crotch. Isben gasped as the air was knocked from his body, and laid on his back with the Thalmor towering triumphantly above him.

The Thalmor raised his sword high, finding that a head as handsome as Isben's would be a lovely trophy on his wall. His sword cut through the air, ready to slice into Isben's neck. The Thalmor stopped his action just short of Isben's neck as he glanced up, his eyes widened into pure terror. He let off a short cry before his body was thrown backward, an arrow sticking out of his forehead.

Another yelp soon sounded afterward, and the caster fell down dead with an arrow lodged in his skull.

Isben sat up, hissing as his head throbbed and gut twisted painfully. He looked around, squinting to find his savior. He found no one; not even the prisoner had stuck around. He crawled by the Thalmor that almost beheaded him and pulled the arrow out. He closed his eyes so that he wouldn't see the river of blood and did the same to the caster Thalmor.

With his back to the bloody pile of corpses, Isben frowned at the arrows. They were obviously not the same kind Faendal had given him. These looked homemade, and the shaft was smooth under his fingertips. Obviously someone had taken a great deal of time to fletch the arrows, and Isben was not one to waste a good weapon. He sheathed them in his quiver, still wary of who they belonged to. He kept his eyes peeled as he continued to Whiterun.


	4. Bitter Tastes

Skyrim belongs to the geniuses at Bethesda. Any character not recognized from the game in this story strictly belongs to moi.

* * *

Isben adjusted his knapsack and continued his slow pace to Whiterun. His tailbone hurt something awful from his falls with the Thalmor, and he swore that he reopened the wound on his leg. Oh, Camilla probably would have had a chicken if she knew that he'd wasted her handiwork. He'd have to visit a temple or find an alchemist in Whiterun as soon as possible to check on his leg. If there was an alchemy store in the city, he'd make the most of it.

Isben crossed Whiterun's drawbridge and trudged up the slope leading toward the city gates. Apart from his little fiasco with the Thalmor, nothing eventful had happened. The road remained clear, save for a giant giving a group of warriors a grand old time. Had it not been for the stranger wielding that huge axe rushing in and saving the day, he had high suspicions that that giant would have attacked more than just a farm.

And with a broken bow and his poor combat skills, there was no way in all the planes of Oblivion that he'd be able to fend against an enraged giant.

"Whiterun is closed to travelers due to the talk of dragons nearby. I am sorry."

Isben looked up and spotted a group of guards trying to keep a woman from entering the city. He inwardly groaned; the last thing he needed was a dilemma in entering the city. His leg was _burning _it hurt so much.

The woman huffed and crossed her arms. "I've told you already: Jarl Balgruuf is expecting me. I don't want to disappoint him again."

The guard shifted on his heels and looked to his comrades for help. They looked everywhere but at him. "I'm sorry, Shêza, but Whiterun is not open."

She snarled and cocked an eyebrow. "Your Jarl specifically asked me to visit his city to discuss important matters, and now you're sending me back? Do you not see how classless this is?"

Isben carefully approached the bickering crowd, mindful of his injured leg. The woman, Shêza, looked over her shoulder at him. He was immediately taken aback by the fierce war paint covering her eye sockets and smearing down her cheeks. With just one glance, she looked like she was ready to tear his insides out!

Isben chuckled nervously, avoiding eye contact with the fierce looking woman.

"I said it once and I'll say it again," another guard spoke. "Whiterun is closed because of the dragons. Please, make our lives easier by turning around."

"And how about you make _my _life easier by letting me in?" Shêza huffed. "You guards are all dogs with their tails stuck between their legs. It's no surprise."

Isben, seeing the guards' offended looks, knew that his chances of entering Whiterun were dwindling with every word this 'Shêza' spoke. "So I came all this way for nothing?" he quickly asked, trying to salvage the moment. "I survived Helgen only to find shelter is out of my midst?"

Shêza didn't seem impressed at all with his words, but the guards did.

"You... you were there when it was destroyed? Are you a Stormcloak spy?" They brandished their weapons, and Isben raised his hands in surrender.

"Nothing of the sort, lads. I'm only here to bring news to Jarl Balgruuf of Helgen's fate and on behalf of Riverwood."

The guards shared glances with each other before coming to a mutual agreement. "Very well. Please, make haste to Dragonsreach." They stepped back and motioned toward the gate.

Shêza hissed and glared at Isben. "You refuse me, a huntswoman that has been providing the Jarl with meat for years, but give access to this complete stranger?" She shook her head. "I hope you gentlemen can think of a good enough reason to tell Balgruuf why I was refused—"

"May she come with me?" Isben interrupted with a polite grin. Shêza felt her blood boil. "If the Jarl sees a familiar face with me, he might be more willing to hear me out instead of gutting me on sight," Isben reasoned.

Shêza blinked and waited for the guards' answers. They sighed and waved them both into the city, finding wisdom in Isben's suggestion.

"You did not need to help me," Shêza bit out once they passed through the gates.

"You looked like you needed the help," Isben shrugged. "I did no harm, did I?"

"Strangers who help other strangers only want something done for them in return," Shêza snapped. She brushed past him, her long legs carrying her a good few feet in front of him.

Isben shook his head before hurrying after her.

She hissed and kept her gaze forward. "Stop following me, elf."

"I'm not an elf," he countered. "Well, I'm half elf, half Nord. The ears make people assume the worst, I know."

"You are a chatty elf," she noted blandly. "And you are still following me."

"You and I are headed toward the same place, no? To the Jarl? I'm just going in the same direction as you."

She whirled around and had him pinned to the blacksmith's workshop with a dagger to his throat in the blink of an eye. "_Stop. Following. Me." _

Isben gulped. "You're none too pleasant to strangers, are you?" He hoped that the guards of Whiterun would sprint toward them and restrain this woman, but they seemed content to watch the tall Nordic dragon-lady bully around the half elf.

She narrowed her eyes at him, the dark paint on her face emphasizing the fury burning in her grey eyes. "You don't know whose toes you're stepping on, little elf," she whispered.

He glanced down at her feet. "Judging by your lack of shoes, it's rather easy to step on your toes. How can you stand the cobbles?"

Shêza was about to bear her teeth and rip his tongue out, but she noticed the fascinated gleam in his eyes, as if he was genuinely curious. Still, there was a touch of mischief that didn't pass her scrutinizing glare.

She pulled the dagger away from him and was already making her way through the Plains District by the time he registered what had just happened. He rubbed his neck and followed after her, but at a distance.

Whiterun reminded him a bit of home. There was the familiar hustle and bustle of people hurrying to and fro, but never in the University did he see so many people in ragged clothing! Even he blended in well with the common rabble, for his comfortable yet costly robes were long gone, probably confiscated by the Imperials.

He sighed, wishing more than ever he was back at his workbench. So long was he in his little reverie that he almost walked right into Shêza. She had her hands on her hips, another glare fixed into her brow. He was starting to think it was the only expression the woman knew how to give.

"You're following me," she said, as if it was a normal observation.

Isben stared at his boots. "I don't know where I'm going," he confessed. "This is my first time in Whiterun."  
"You've never been to Whiterun before, and yet you came from Riverwood? What, have you been sitting on your arse for your entire life? _Eugh, _what a man-child."

Isben looked her in the eye, refusing to let her vicious gaze be a deterrent. "_Man-child?" _He repeated. "I'll have you know that I've brewed potions that have saved men's lives from the brink of death. I've made salves that have healed even the ugliest of wounds."

"And I can bite your hands off before you even have a chance to lift up a pestle and mortar," she said with a mock toothy grin. She rolled her eyes, her expression falling, and hurried up the steps to Dragonsreach.

Ignoring his leg, he matched her long strides. "You are miserable," he said casually.

She stiffened and tried to beat him at their little race. "You are a man-child, used to having people hold your hand and guide you through life step by step."

"And you make this conclusion based on what?"

"And you think me miserable because..?" She didn't wait for him to answer and pushed open the large double doors into Dragonsreach. She slammed the doors closed, and he had to jump back to avoid having his nose flattened.

Shaking his head, Isben opened the doors and followed her in. They were stopped again by a small company of guards wanting to know their business with the Jarl. Isben let Shêza state her purpose first and had to bite his lip to hide a smirk when they still blocked her way.

"And what of the elf?" They gave him uneasy looks, their hands resting on the pommels of their swords. "Is he with you, too?"

Shêza's glower was enough to answer their question. Isben snorted and kept his distance from the guards as he replied, "I'm a survivor from Helgen with information on the dragons that the Jarl may find useful—"

The words were hardly out of his mouth before the guards ushered him, with weapons drawn and a blade pressed against his back in warning, up the stairs and toward the Jarl's throne. He looked over his shoulder to see Shêza hissing and figuratively chewing off a guard's ear.

But from the looks of it, he wouldn't be surprised if she actually chewed it off.

A dunmer woman, with her sword unsheathed, approached him with the caution of a cat on the prowl. "Guardsmen, are you out of your spirits for bringing a stranger to the Jarl?"

Two guards grabbed Isben by the arms as the woman came closer to him. She grabbed Isben's chin in one hand and turned his face to and fro, examining him as if he was property for sale.

"I'm here to—" Isben was interrupted as the dunmer smacked the side of his head with a fist encased in a gauntlet. He blinked as stars swam across his vision.

"You will speak when asked to. Until then, you will remain quiet as I assess the situation—"

"And you, Irileth," a man spoke from his spot at his throne, "will remain a loyal soldier and remember your place as _I, _Jarl Balgruuf the Greater of Whiterun, assess the situation."

Irileth's claw-like grip on Isben's face vanished as she took her place beside the throne. "Of course, my Jarl."

Jarl Balgruuf nodded and gestured for the guards. "Leave the lad. I'm sure he will prove himself to be friend instead of foe."

The guards bowed their heads before taking a few steps away from Isben, though not without giving him wary looks. Isben swallowed and rubbed his jaw. He caught himself as a sword pommel dug into his back.

"Don't keep the Jarl waiting, elf," a guard murmured in his ear. Isben scurried around the roaring fire pit in the center of Dragonsreach to the Jarl's throne. He kept his head inclined as he told Jarl Balgruuf everything he knew: his predicament in Helgen, the beheading of Stormcloaks, and how the black dragon destroyed everything in sight. The Jarl listened, reclined leisurely in his throne, the only telltale sign that he was concerned was his brow furrowing with every new detail Isben told.

Even Irileth looked mortified, but she tried to keep it hidden with her suspicion of Isben.

"My Jarl," she said when Isben was through with his tale, "what he speaks of is nigh on the verge of a nightmare. Surely you mustn't believe everything he speaks of?"

Jarl Balgruuf frowned and stood from his throne. "It is hard to tell what is truth and what is lie, Irileth, given that dragons were thought of as a myth—a children's bedtime story—just almost a week ago." He held his hand up when Irileth tried to argue again. "That is for another time, Irileth. As for you," he turned toward Isben, "come. We shall speak with my court wizard, Farengar. If there is anything to be made with this information, he'll be our right-hand man."

Isben followed the Jarl as they entered a side room just off the throne room. Glancing to the side, Isben caught another glimpse of Shêza still being denied access. Inside, a robed man—a familiar sight, given Isben's profession—stood near a desk cluttered with scrolls and maps. He didn't even look up, too busy with his musings and parchments, as the Jarl entered the room.

"This is Farengar," the Jarl introduced. "Farengar, I've brought you someone who might be of assistance in your research."

Farengar looked up from his work only for a second. He continued to browse through his papers, occasionally jotting down notes, as he replied, "With all due respect, Jarl Balgruuf, you have been sending me men who have supposed 'knowledge' on dragons, when in reality, they are either drunk off of Black Briar mead, or have no sense whatsoever. What makes you think this man is any different?"

Isben frowned, not at all liking Farengar's dismissive tone. He shouldn't have been surprised; mages in the University absolutely _loved _to look down their snooty noses at novices or scholars that weren't particularly gifted in the art of magicka.

Mages in Skyrim seemed to be cut from the same cloth.

As the Jarl persuaded Farengar with Isben's story, Isben stole the chance to wander away from the two men. Farengar's office was a bit shabby, but still filled with scrolls and writings that were familiar to Isben. He smiled widely when he saw a cabinet filled to bursting with ingredients. Frost salts, fire salts, snowberries, a giant's toe—

This particular ingredient was a rare find in the University, given the ferocity of the giants. He'd only had a few opportunities to test the ingredient out, but they had been successful brews.

"And so you will go to Bleak Falls Barrow to retrieve the Dragonstone, yes?"

"Pardon?" Isben looked between the two men, aware that they had caught him day-dreaming. He mentally scolded himself and had the decency to look guilty before them.

Farengar inhaled to calm his nerves before repeating his question.

"Yes," Jarl Balgruuf nodded. "He will do well to retrieve it. It'd be a good chance to show Whiterun that you are a friend of the people."

Isben opened his mouth to voice his objections, but Shêza stormed into the room, a Whiterun guard with no luck at restricting her dangling from her arm as she practically dragged him with her.

"Jarl Balgruuf, I believe I have been kept waiting enough," she growled. "You asked me to meet with you—"

"And you will accompany him, Shêza," the Jarl interrupted. Shêza blinked in confusion and shot Isben an accusing look.

"To Bleak Falls Barrow," Farengar clarified, "to retrieve the Dragonstone. Now, I think we've said it enough for you to understand, yes? Be off with you already!"

Shêza shook her head and stood her ground. "You cannot just order me around like a servant—"

"Shêzanaré, it would be most unwise of someone in your position to question the Jarl's command," Farengar offered with a smug grin. "Personally, I think this mission will have a slightly greater chance of being a success—not that that actually means anything, mind you—if you joined him."

Shêza glared daggers at Isben, as if he was the source of all of her problems. This time, he didn't look away and met her icy stare.

"We will discuss the boundary limitations when you return, Shêza," the Jarl said. Some of Shêza's disdain melted away, but her posture was still stiff with unease and anger.

She bowed her head. "As my Jarl wishes." She turned on her heel and stormed out of Dragonsreach, the guards hurrying to move out of her way, lest they be scorched by her fury.

Farengar smiled and patted Isben on the shoulder. "It was nice meeting you. If you return in one piece, then we'll have a proper introduction over dinner."

Isben left the two men to find that grumpy woman, feeling more of a fool for letting someone else volunteer for him. Oh, what would his students think if they saw him now!

_'They would jeer and laugh at me,' _he thought miserably. He shook his head as he left Dragonsreach. He did his best to hide his limp as he climbed down the stairs back into the Wind District. Next to the giant, seemingly dead tree in the center of the courtyard stood Shêza, wearing her ever-usual scowl.

"Pick up the pace, whelp, so we can get this over and done with." She led the way to the Plains District. When she didn't hear Isben following, she huffed and looked behind her.

He was leaning against a house, a hand wrapped around his blood-soaked trousers. She frowned and stood in front of him.

"That leg won't be a problem, will it?"

He smirked and shook his head. "Let's put a gouge in your calf and see how you fare," he suggested.

She scowled and roughly grabbed his arm. "A fast mouth will not earn you any respect, whelp."

He winced as she hauled him across the city to a small house. "And treating someone like baggage won't make people look past your ghastly features."

She almost threw him inside the store, but checked herself just in time. Pursing her lips, she let his comment slide and pushed open the door. Leaving Isben in front of the counter, she left.

Isben held onto the counter for support.

"What do you need, friend—oh, don't try to move on that leg!" A woman with a worn, friendly face carefully ushered him into a chair. "You just sit still while I take care of this, hm?" She browsed through her cabinets, selecting a potion, salve, and bandages before kneeling beside him.

"Here, drink this."

He gratefully accepted the potion she gave him, gulping it down like a man dehydrated. He felt a pleasant numbness spread over his bad leg, and he sighed in relief. "You're an alchemist?" he asked.

She nodded as she rolled up the leg of his trousers. "I'm Arcadia. I'm the only alchemist here in Whiterun. I don't have much business here; usually I have customers in the winter season. You'd be surprised how fast colds and fevers spread in cities."

"Although," she added, "being an Imperial isn't a favorable trait in Skyrim. These Nords can't look past my race to trust my work."

Isben nodded in sympathy. "The War has everyone stabbing their neighbor in the back, it seems."

She scoffed and rolled her eyes. "If you ask me, the War should be over and done with already. Ulfric Stormcloak has no right to raise arms against the Empire." Isben kept his mouth shut. He didn't know enough of the War to have a say in the matter. All he knew was that the Thalmor were invading every province in Tamriel, and at a fast rate.

After cleaning the wound, she spread the salve over it and wrapped it up with a bandage. "Do you need a splint?"

He shook his head. "No time, I'm afraid—"

"Then drink this, too." She forced another potion into his hands. One sniff of the foul-smelling liquid told him exactly what he was about to drink. He braced himself as he downed the disgusting drink and managed not to gag on it.

The torn flesh of his calf slowly knit itself back together, and he was thankful that the limb was still numb. He'd used the same potion on soldiers who would have lost an arm or a leg, but he himself had never experienced that awful feeling of having flesh mended back together.

Isben smiled and stood. "Thank you, Arcadia. I'll keep you in mind if I ever find myself with another injury." She grinned and shook his hand when he offered it to her. "I'm Isben, Isben of—"

Shêza unceremoniously invited herself into Arcadia's Cauldron. "I'm sorry for dumping him on you, Arcadia. How much of your stock did he waste?"

"He wasted none of it," she said warmly. "A patient never misuses potions."

Isben grinned, not caring that Shêza rolled her eyes at him.

"Perhaps. The bill, though?"

Isben paled. He didn't have any septims on him, and knew that the potion Arcadia gave him was an expensive one.

"No charge, Shêza." Arcadia winked at Isben's perplexed stare. "First-time customer's benefit."

Shêza snorted. "You're too kind to these outsiders, Arcadia."

Arcadia shrugged. "Perhaps."

Isben thanked her again before letting Shêza lead the way out. He would most likely return to Arcadia's Cauldron—he had a feeling that it'd be the only taste of sanity he'd have in Skyrim for a long while to come.


	5. Bleak Falls Barrow: Disarmament

Skyrim belongs to Bethesda. All OCs are mine, though! Enjoy!

* * *

"Would it be too much to ask for you to slow down? I mean, considering that _I didn't even cross the drawbridge yet _and you're already at the stable?" Isben called after Shêza. He rolled his eyes when she didn't even turn around. But she humored him, he noted, as she stopped and leaned against the stables, receiving curious looks from the horses there.

She glared at the dumb beasts, daring them to nudge her with their muzzles. She hissed when one tried to smack its lips against her shoulder.

Isben trotted over to her and watched in amusement as the horse hurried behind one of the stable boys. "You're not much of an animal person, are you?"

Her eyes gleamed with new intensity as she turned her glare over to him. "Was that supposed to be comical, elf?"

"Oh, pardon me," he said with a mock bow. "Humor must be poison to someone of your personality."

"Keep your jabs to yourself," she spat before walking away from him. After consulting his map, he found that Bleak Falls Barrow was just west of Riverwood. Hopefully they'd be able to avoid the village; it was too soon to face the petty follies of a quaint little town again.

He walked abreast to her. It was difficult, as Shêza's legs were longer than his, but not by much, and even though Arcadia knew her potions, there was still a small tingle in his calf. He'd tend to his leg himself when he had the chance. Right now, he didn't want to annoy Shêza further by dawdling. After all, the woman had taken it upon herself to buy a new bow and a full quiver of arrows for him. He'd quietly accepted the gifts, knowing that she must not have had a bountiful supply of gold to begin with, judging by her worn attire.

"Keep up, elf," she called over her shoulder as they made their way up the slope to Riverwood. "If you fall behind, I won't wait for you again."

Isben picked up the pace and looked over to the stream just beside them. "Funny how there's game out in the open when you aren't even hunting, but hidden like a needle in a haystack when you're trying to shoot them," he mused to himself.

Shêza frowned. "You're telling me you can't even kill the deer around here?"

Isben chuckled and scratched the back of his head. "It's not that—"

"Milk-drinking baby," she muttered. "The Jarl must have just plucked you from your mother's breast or something. This is all a disgrace to my honor, having to babysit this lump."

Isben kept his mouth closed and let her continue to fling some more insults at him. It wasn't anything he was unfamiliar with. At the University, most, if not all, of the Thalmor magisters had verbally abused him, and to save their own hides, the apprentices at the University would mimic their sick game to please them and hopefully rise in rank. But behind closed doors with no Thalmor ears within hearing range, the apprentices were mostly kind and admirable of his knowledge and skills with a pestle and mortar.

"Have you heard of the poison ivy around here?" he asked when Shêza took a pause in her insults.

She stopped immediately at the question, and he had to step to the side to avoid colliding with her. She whipped her head and wore almost a wolfish snarl on her face. "What do you know about the poison ivy?"

Isben swallowed and took a step back. He raised his hands. "Easy, it's just a question."

"There is no poison ivy," she snarled before marching away. He frowned and scurried after her.

"What? Yes, there is; I've seen it with my own eyes! It's just by the first waterfall—"

She had him pinned to a rock in a split second, one of _his _arrows digging into his neck. "There is _no _poison ivy," she grounded out slowly, making sure he'd not press the issue further.

"Alright," he whispered, surprised that he'd remained so calm. Even his expression was neutral, as if he wasn't the least concerned about the arrowhead pricking his skin hard enough to draw blood. From a far corner of his mind mostly occupied by cobwebs, he could feel it slowly trickle down his neck, but the guarded and panicked frenzy in Shêza's eyes was far more interesting to him.

She released him and resumed her walk, her shoulders a little more hunched from tension, and her stride just a bit choppy with anger.

Isben waited a few moments, letting her take the lead for a few paces, before following her. He kept his distance, far enough to still see her, but close enough should a bandit or animal try to attack.

They didn't stop in Riverwood, for which Isben was grateful for, and climbed a slope just outside the town. Shêza seemed to have no problem whatsoever weaving her way through the rocks, and Isben winced when he remembered her bare feet.

_That must hurt something awful, _he thought sympathetically. But if it hurt, it didn't show.

The air became noticeably colder, and he was thankful for his Nordic blood keeping most of the chill away. Soon they had climbed a decent height, Shêza still in the lead and Isben tailing behind her.

"Farengar could have said it was on a mountain," Isben said lightheartedly in hopes of starting a conversation. Shêza merely grunted. "I mean, it's _snowing _up here!"

"I know it's quite different from the luxury you're used to."

"I used to make snowmen in the University gardens," he thought aloud. "It was all fun and games until someone decided to stick dried Falmer ears on them and name them after me." He chuckled humorlessly. "By the end of the day, the head would have been swiped clean off."

She was quiet as he spoke, listening to what he said and their surroundings.

"It goes to show the prejudice against any child born of a Nord and Mer couple," he added. "Even in Skyrim, there's no escaping the suspicious looks or the dirty glances. You have it easy being a pure-blooded Nord—" He was interrupted by her yet again when she yanked him down to the ground and crouched beside him. He fell face first into the snow and felt every particle of his body flinch and shrivel from the awful sensation.

"Mrrfm mrfhm," he mumbled. Shêza rolled her eyes and jerked his face up. He shook his head free of the snow and gave her an unamused look. "If I insulted you again, you could have said so."

She huffed and angled his head ahead of them. "Your chattering could have gotten us killed," she whispered with a feral tone. "They may be bandits, but they're not deaf."

Isben could only see two bandits leisurely leaning against an abandoned fortress crumbling with age, but knew there had to be at least two more inside. "What are we—"

An arrow whizzed over his head and lodged itself in the skull of one of the bandits. His corpse flew backward from the impact, and by the time his comrade registered they were under attack, Shêza had nocked another arrow. It landed beautifully—disgustingly, horridly, vividly, but beautifully nonetheless—in his throat.

Isben swallowed and looked up at her. "Nice work."

She made no comment and lifted her chin. It took him a moment to realize that she was sniffing the air. He quirked an eyebrow and followed suit. After a few whiffs, he frowned. He didn't smell anything, surely she couldn't, either.

She confirmed his suspicions after several more inhales. "There's one more inside. Probably waiting for us to come closer," she scoffed. She silently crept toward the fortress, her movements fluid and precise. Isben still laid dumbly in the snow, uncertain whether or not he should follow. He was quite certain that he'd make a racket and blow her cover.

Shêza made a small detour away from the towers and fumbled in the snow. She pulled something out of it—Isben couldn't see from where he was—and stalked back toward the tower's entrance. She straightened herself carefully, flattening herself against the tower's wall just outside the doors.

She heard their breathing, their heart thumping. The quiet creak of the wood beneath them as they anxiously shifted their feet, waiting for their attackers to show themselves so that the fallen bandits could be avenged. She smelled the sweat on their palms, heard the dull thuds as fingers drummed against a weapon in anticipation.

Isben saw her suddenly fling her hand out, and a small object—a rock, he noticed—leapt from her palm. What happened next nearly had his bladder burst. The bandit charged out of the tower after hearing the rock crunch against the snow. The man charged at him, axe held high and a blood-curdling battlecry spewing from his lips.

But the bandit never made it even halfway toward Isben. Shêza dove on him, pinning him to the ground, and planted one of her arrows in the back of his head.

Slowly, Isben picked himself up and wobbled over to her. He looked away just in time as she pulled the arrow free.

"We move on," she said. No, not said. She casually stated, as if she was ordering a sweetroll or commenting on the weather. Isben, despite the fact that Shêza saved him from having to deal with the bandits on his own, found anger pulsing in his veins. He clenched his fists and marched after her.

"You just wait right there," he shouted. She stopped and offered him an impatient look. He didn't let it deter him, though; if anything, it only added to his upset mood. "You used me as bait!"

"They are dead, and we still live. The Jarl's work is not done yet." She turned to leave, but he stopped her with a hand on her arm. He wasn't sure how he expected her to try to swipe at him with her free hand, but he did, and surprised both of them by catching her wrist in mid-swing.

"You used me as bait," he repeated with a far calmer tone. "Do I look like horse meat to you? Am I a raw piece of meat dangling from a bone?"

She stared at him, her mouth open to growl—_growl!—_a warning to him.

"No, I am _not," _Isben continued. "I am a person, the same as you. You could have told me what you were planning, or done _something _so that I would have known! What if your plan didn't work and I died?"

She shook as she fought the urge to bite at his hands until he was left with little stumps. "It _did _work and you _didn't _die," she bit out. _Unfortunately. _

"But it still is not your decision to put someone else's life on the line. Unknowingly, at that!"

"And what are you going to do about it, elf? Oh, no, let me rephrase that," she cackled. "What _can _you do about it?"

His expression hardened and fury spiked through his blood when he saw her smile in triumph. She knew just as much as he did. There was _nothing _he could do about it. He was powerless; if he tried to draw a weapon on her, she'd have him dead before the thought even crossed his mind.

And she had connections with the Jarl from what he'd gathered. He'd forfeit Riverwood's safety if he hurt even one hair on this beast.

Isben slowly retracted his grip on her. He could feel the victory rolling off of her, like a suffocating wave. He looked her dead in the eye as he said, "Lead the way."

* * *

Bleak Falls Barrow was exactly what its name said: it was bleak. Very bleak. And an unwary traveler would have quite the fall if they didn't watch their step.

It took a considerable amount of imagination and creativity to picture what it must have looked like ages ago. Its crumbling stone archways and broken steps did not do it justice.

They encountered more bandits guarding the entrance to the ruin, and Shêza dispatched them without even a glance at Isben. He didn't make a peep, either, and followed her as she wordlessly entered the ruin. Shêza abruptly dropped into a crouch when they entered, and he did the same. His back protested from being hunched over, but he'd prefer aching bones over a sword in his gut any day of the week.

There were two bandits in the first room around a small fireplace, talking quietly amongst each other. Shêza stayed to the shadows, bow drawn and arrow ready, while Isben stayed where he was. By the Eight and One, he could have sat down and had lunch for all Shêza cared, so long as he wasn't in the way and chewed quietly.

In just a matter of seconds, both bandits were face-down in the ground with arrows embedded in their bodies. He wasn't given a signal to follow her, and he'd be damned, he wouldn't want one anyway.

They descended further into Bleak Falls Barrow, through spiderwebs that Shêza paid no mind to (he grimaced and held back gags whenever he'd walk through one and pray to the Nine that there weren't any spiders crawling on him), and through mazes of large roots and vines.

A thump sounded from behind Shêza and she turned around, a hand hovering over her quiver, only to find Isben sprawled out on his stomach.

"Watch where you step," were her only words of wisdom before turning around and walking away. He groaned and pulled himself back up, muttering curses at the overgrown roots. Thankfully, he didn't trip again.

Shêza held her hand up, and Isben stopped in his tracks. They inched closer to the next room, keeping one eye on the bandit looking at a lever and one eye on where their feet were. Once they were pressed against either side of the doorway, they peered inside.

The bandit shrugged and with a grunt, pulled the lever down. Poisoned darts shot out from the walls, and he was dead in a heartbeat.

"Beware the lever," Isben said. He followed Shêza into the room, and both of them noted the barred entrance to the next chamber.

"A dead end," she stated dismally. "There's probably another way if we retrace our steps. I don't trust that lever." She was halfway toward the door when Isben called her back over.

"Hold just a minute." He gestured for her without taking his eyes off the walls. "Do you see the engravings?" Etched into the walls were pictures of animals, something that Shêza didn't find too fascinating.

"Most ruins have these in honor of Skyrim's wildlife," she sighed. "They're meant to please Kynareth."

"I find that these ruins have some similarities to the Ayleid ones back home," Isben muttered to himself as he moved to the other side of the room. He palmed the wall and pulled at a few jutting rocks. "We used to be called on expeditions to research them and discover secrets about our Ayleid predecessors. They were always filled with traps."

"Like the one we just witnessed," she snorted. "We are wasting time. There might be more bandits on their way back to the ruin—"

"Traps that, if one has the eye and patience," he looked at her, "can be rendered harmless. There's usually a puzzle to solve to disarm the trap and to allow entry into the next room." He continued searching the wall and blew away dust and cobwebs. "Usually a switch or trigger."

"This place is falling apart," she deadpanned. "A switch could have been buried two eras ago for all we know. We'd be here forever digging through all the rubble and roots just to find it."

"You're right," he said with a bob of his head. "A switch would be too flimsy in this structure. The trigger must be somewhere sturdy with strong walls—like the one that I'm searching now. See?" He knelt and ran his hands along the stone. Shêza hovered over him, and he looked up at her with a sparkle in his eyes. "There are no cracks in this wall. None. The stone is smooth, almost like it was polished just moments before we arrived." He turned his attention back to the wall. "Clever."

"And?" she prompted. "So the wall is smooth. That doesn't get us past that gate."

Isben tore through a new layer of webs, not caring about the spiders that scurried out of them in search of a new home. "But these will," he whispered excitedly. He raked his hands through dirt and revealed three small pillars, each engraved with a different symbol on them.

"They match the ones on the walls." Shêza blinked and scrutinized Isben, as if meeting a different person.

He stood and looked at all four walls of the room. "They do, but their order is incorrect. That's why our dear friend," he nodded at the dead bandit, "was made into an acupuncture experiment when he pulled the lever. Judging by the pictures, I presume all three symbols should be snakes. These two, the dolphin and eagle, are incorrect, and therefor do not disarm the trap."

Shêza nodded and braced herself as she tried to turn one of the pillars. She pursed her lips, straining her muscles, but it wouldn't budge. She frowned and looked the pillar over, and let out an 'ah' of realization. "The grooves on the bottom are blocked with dirt." Using an arrow, she chiseled out some of the dirt.

Isben joined her in turning the pillar. "On three, yes? One, two, _three." _They both pulled and swiveled the pillar, cringing when the metal shrieked and groaned. "Must have been... centuries since... they've been used."

Finally, they managed to turn it into the proper position so that the snake symbol was facing the lever. They repeated the process for the other one, their hands and brows dirty and sweaty from the effort.

Isben didn't mind. In fact, he didn't mind at all. It'd been too long since he'd been on an expedition, even if he was there to inform the other members on what fungus was toxic or beneficial to the human body. He didn't notice Shêza staring at him.

He was smiling. Ear to ear, toothy, like a madman. Like a child in front of a mountain of sweetrolls. She shook her head blandly, not knowing what to think.

"And now for the lever," he said with a finality that brightened the eerie atmosphere of the ruin. Grabbing hold of the lever with both hands, he pulled it down until the knob met the floor. Shêza looked around the room disinterestedly, not surprised when there weren't any darts.

Isben sported a confident smirk when the gates barring their way receded with a _clang! _He walked on, a spring in his steps, with Shêza blinking in confusion at him.


	6. Bleak Falls Barrow: En Garde

They said they'd get back to me about partial ownership of The Elder Scrolls franchise, but until they do, Skyrim belongs to Bethesda ;) I, however, own all OCs in this story. _Bon appetit!_

* * *

The pair descended a rickety spiral staircase that looked like maggots had eaten away most of the wood. Shêza had taken the lead when Isben had stopped to loot some burial urns placed on a table to honor some long-since-living Nordic lord.

Isben shook his head when Shêza's footfalls were deathly silent. The wood creaked and groaned with every step he made. _Perhaps being barefoot has its advantages. _

A hiss and squeak drew Shêza's attention, and she unslung her bow. Two skeevers zig-zagged toward her, and each met their end with arrows.

Isben sniffed and looked anywhere but at the growing pool of blood on the ground. "I'm surprised they'd be able to live down here—what do they eat?" he asked with a small chuckle in the hopes of distracting himself from the smell of metal filling the room. Gods, he hated blood.

Shêza only grunted and pressed forward. He followed, swerving and scurrying away from the blood that threatened to reach his boots.

"We don't have many skeevers in Cyrodiil," Isben thought aloud. "Mainly just rats and field mice. Ayleid ruins are filled with them—well, most make fine meals to the other nasties lurking in the ruins." He was beginning to become used to her silence in his one-sided conversations and took her grunt as a cue to continue.

"We don't have giant spiders, either—what are they called?"

No answer.

He shrugged. "But there are rumors of giant slaughterfish and mudcrabs living in the darkest depths of caverns in Cyrodiil. Can you imagine that?" Isben watched as Shêza began hacking away at a thick mass of spiderwebs with her knife. "All those slaughterfish scales to make potions with? And the mudcrab chitin? Alchemists would pay an abundance of gold for their corpses. I know I would if I had the money."

She ducked under the torn web and rolled her eyes when Isben still babbled about his precious slaughterfish scales and mudcrab chitin. Shêza looked around the room, and her gaze snapped toward a figure that looked like—

A man. A _living _Dunmer man. Stuck in a spiderweb, squirming this way and that in a futile attempt to break free. Her blood boiled at the sight of the confinement, and she hastened over to the man, dagger unsheathed, to cut him loose.

"Not to mention that there might be a possibility of many slaughterfish eggs in the cavern as well. Think about it: with just one ingredient—_watch out!" _Isben looked up to see a frostbite spider more than four times his size fall from the ceiling.

Shêza whirled around as he shrieked, and glanced up just as the spider landed on her. It pinned her to the ground with its weight, and her dagger flew from her hand. Its front legs held her shoulders down and it moved in for the kill. Shêza snarled and grabbed its fangs to keep them from biting into her neck. She hissed and struggled to keep the fangs away and made to kick the spindly monster off of her.

She didn't know that she'd landed in webs, and when she tried to kick the frostbite spider away, the webs caught and twisted around her limbs, gradually restricting her from moving.

"Shoot it, you twit!" she snapped at Isben. She growled when she didn't receive a response or an arrow to the rescue.

Isben had fallen back and landed hard on his bum from the shock of seeing Shêza—_Shêza! Fierce lady whose temper not only matched a dragon's, but could probably turn a dragon flying back to its mother!—_attacked. It was then that he noticed the whole room covered in webs, corpses (some fresh, some charred and rotting) caught in them, and egg sacs scattered around playing house to _more _of those damned creatures.

He closed his eyes and swallowed, praying to the Nine that he wouldn't faint. He felt lightheaded, and his stomach was somersaulting. He could see himself as one of those corpses: hanging forever in those webs, skin chewed clean off, holes eaten through his stomach, the last thing he sees that spider's fangs.

"_Are you listening to me? _SHOOT IT!" Shêza was screaming at the top of her lungs, and it was just enough to force him to snap out of his horrid thoughts. He scrambled for his bow and nocked an arrow with shaking hands. Memories of his fight with the Thalmor managed to creep in his mind and add to his traumatized state, and he was unsuccessful to shove them down the darkest parts of his mind.

His lack of confidence showed in his shot; the arrow went wide, landing at Shêza's side. She screeched when she saw the result of his terrible aim. She strained her muscles as the spider gained ground on her. Its fangs cut into her palms, and she saw the poison secreting from them. A small tingle began in her hands—easy to ignore—but gradually made her lose the ability to feel them. It soon spread through her arms, the frostbite venom working tenfold due to her pounding blood.

She felt the beast inside throw itself at her lines of control, howling and hissing at her to give in to the instinct of survival. Her gums split as the roots of her teeth twisted, and she whimpered when she saw the beginnings of her claws forming.

The spider let out something akin to a scream as something dug into its back. Isben readied another arrow and released it. It wasn't enough to kill it, but it was enough for it to release Shêza and turn its attention to the greater threat: Isben himself.

It crawled toward Isben, its fangs retracted and poison dripping from them. He fired another shot, and by luck, the arrow crippled the monster by shooting through one of its legs and puncturing a joint. It struggled to remain standing, its weight too much for just six legs to balance, and Isben finished it off with three more arrows.

Finally, it laid dead before him, and he still sat on the disgusting ground, shaking and panting like his life depended on it. "Sh-Sh-Shê—Shêza?" he managed to stutter. There was no answer. Panicking, Isben half-crawled and half-ran over and through the spider's corpse to reach her.

She was pale, more so than her usual porcelain complexion, and her eyes were closed. Isben frowned, recognizing the signs of poison, and pinched the back of her hand hard enough to leave a mark. She didn't even flinch. Nodding, he swung his pack off his shoulders, rummaging through its contents until he pulled out a vial. Thankfully, Gerdur had supplied him a cure for poisons.

Working quickly, he hoisted her so that she was sitting up, her head resting in the crook of his elbow, and let the potion trickle into her mouth. Color sluggishly worked its way back into her cheeks (or so he thought; it was hard to tell with her war paint), and he let out a breath he didn't know he was holding. He was familiar with the feeling of losing a patient, and it was one of heartbreak and failure.

Luckily, there was no reason for him to feel that crushing emotion that day.

As a final examination, Isben pinched her hand again and yelped when she sprung up and rolled over so he was pinned beneath her. She had one hand at his throat, the other pulled back into a fist, and bared her teeth at him.

Isben swallowed, noticing the primal glint in her eye, and weakly chuckled. "That's one way of saying 'thank you.'"

She growled and tightened her hold on his neck. He met her terrifying gaze head on, and a part of him felt like he was looking at Death. "I always knew you were ungrateful," Isben said evenly.

Shêza blinked, and in a split second her death-grip was gone and her fist slackened.

"I know this may sound like an insult," Isben added when the animal-like gleam left her eyes, "but my lady, you are rather heavy, and I think my stomach would appreciate it if you—"

She shoved him hard in the shoulder and hissed at him. "What is wrong with you, you tit-sucking sap? Have you _ever _fought a battle in your whole life?"

He winced when she shoved him again. "Yes, I have—"

"—Then what excuse do you have of almost _killing _me? That arrow could have hit me! Your aim is a disgrace for an elf!"

Isben frowned and hit her hand when she made to shove him again. "I don't know how to use a bow!" he shouted.

Shêza stared at him like he was the most pathetic thing in all of Tamriel. "Man-child," she spat after a moment, "so used to others doing the work for you. You used to sitting on your rear all day long? Is that what you do, then?"

"Well, actually, yes—"

She hissed and pulled him up by the straps of his armor. "This is all your doing! If you would have kept your mouth shut instead of spewing nonsense about slaughterfish and mudcrabs—"

"—Oh, I'm sorry, did I distract you?"

"—I could have heard the spider before it even attacked us!"

"Well you never seemed to have a problem ignoring me before!"

Shêza gripped the straps with a white-knuckled fist. "Why didn't you say you didn't know how to fight?"

"Are you pinning that on me as well? I wasn't given a chance! You don't even acknowledge me, for Talos' sake!" Isben shook his head when her nostrils flared. "If you think I'm intimidated, you're mistaken. I'm used to dealing with immature children."

Shêza snarled and opened her mouth to reply, but a groan coming from the webs had her shut her mouth and whip her head toward the sound.

The man trapped in the web huffed and wiggled in his sticky prison. "Oy, 'ow 'bout I propose something other than killing each other in this 'ere ruin?" he said irritably.

Shêza tried to stand, but fell back down. If Isben hadn't caught her arm, she would have squashed him. She looked over her shoulder and frowned. Her legs were still caught in the web. She looked at Isben expectantly. When he still gave her that damned infuriating blank look, she clarified. "Cut me loose, whelp."

The corner of his mouth twitched. "No."

She pursed her lips, her patience wearing thin. "I'm warning you—"

"Do it yourself," he said gruffly. He shimmied out from under her and pulled himself to his feet. He picked at whatever strands of web clung to him, indifferent to Shêza shrieking at him. He rolled his eyes after a few more moments of listening to her fuss and tossed her his dagger.

"Name's Arvel," the man said as Isben stood before him. "But blokes of my specific trade call me Arvel the Swift."

"I'm Isb—" A hand clamped over his mouth as Shêza, freed from the webs, joined him. She shot him a warning look.

"We're no one," she told Arvel, keeping her eyes on Isben. He huffed and yanked her hand from his mouth.

Arvel slowly nodded, or what they assumed to be a nod, given his current predicament, and looked the two over. "You sods 'ere to see to Lucan's claw, too?"

Isben cocked his head to the side. _Lucan... Lucan... why does that name sound familiar? Ah, yes. Camilla's brother. Owns the Riverwood Trader, I believe. _

"Claw?" he asked. From the corner of his eye, he saw Shêza purse her lips. "What claw?"

"Why, the Golden Claw, of course!" Arvel smirked. "Said to unlock unimaginable treasures—can you believe that fool had it on display in his flimsy li'le shop?" Arvel paused. "Tell you sods what: you cut me down from these webs, and I'll split the treasure with you two. Missy 'ere looks like she could use a new pair of clothes, anyways."

Isben hid his smile by biting his lip while Shêza hissed at the man. She took Isben by the arm and dragged him a few feet away from Arvel.

"A moment, if you will," Isben said over his shoulder.

"Not like I'm going anywhere, mate," Arvel huffed.

Shêza jerked him around so they were face to face. "This is a trap."

Isben shrugged. "But he needs our help. You wouldn't let him stay there to be spider chow, would you?"

She narrowed her eyes, and repeated her words, emphasizing the word 'trap'.

"He's blocking the way, though," Isben reasoned. "Unless you want to chisel your way through the rocks with your arrows, be my guest. I think it'd be wiser to just set him free."

"Didn't you hear what he said? He's a thief, you twit. What makes you think he won't slit our throats just to have his precious treasure?"

"Ahh, so you _do _acknowledge the treasure part of his deal." Isben grinned. "I _knew _you could listen to people."

She growled at him.

He waved a hand at her and clicked his tongue. "Stop that already, would you? It makes you seem rabid."

She growled louder, flexing her fingers as she contemplated ripping his tongue out. "We aren't helping this thief," she bit out.

"I don't see any other choice. Besides," he paused and looked her up and down, "you _could _use a new wardrobe."

Her head recoiled and she bared her teeth at him. He was already walking back to Arvel, a friendly grin on his face.

"We agree to help you, so long as you keep your word," he announced.

Arvel bobbed his head up and down eagerly. "Of course, mate. We elves take care of our own, yeah?" Shêza shoved Isben out of the way and started hacking at the webs with his dagger. Her brow was firmly furrowed as she cut away at Arvel's bonds. "Oy, missy, li'le too close to the goods there." He nervously cleared his throat when she smiled sweetly at him and held the dagger closer to his groin.

Finally, he was free, and Shêza didn't stop the man's fall. Arvel grunted as he caught himself with his hands. Isben moved past Shêza to help him up.

"Thanks, mate." He stretched his arms and legs, and nodded toward the spider's corpse behind them. "Those are some nasty bugs, I tell you."

Shêza and Isben looked at the spider, a mistake on both of their parts. Arvel took the opportunity to slam his fist into Isben's jaw, the impact of the blow sending him backward into Shêza. They fell to the ground in a heap as Arvel made his escape.

"You fools thought I'd share the treasure with you?" he shouted as he ran.

In the blink of an eye, Shêza pushed Isben off of her and dashed after the thief, her lips retracted in a snarl. Isben chased her after he righted himself, stars still dancing across his vision from the punch.

"Shêza, wait!" he called desperately. She didn't listen.

"You'll never catch me!" Arvel cackled.

Isben pushed himself to a greater speed. Shêza was _fast. _Unbelievably _fast, _and Isben had to use every ounce of strength in his muscles just to be an arm's length away from her.

They ran into the next room, and Isben's eyes darted to the floor. He gasped when he saw the pressure plate, and knew that Shêza was too set on catching Arvel to notice it.

He threw his arms around her waist and scooped her up. She shrieked and fought his grip, kicking out at him and scratching him with her nails. He closed his eyes and gradually walked backward into the wall. He scrunched his face when Shêza's nails started to draw blood.

"Shêza, STOP!" he shouted. His words didn't halt her attack, but a crunch shortly followed by a scream did.

Both of them looked ahead to see Arvel, or what used to be Arvel, impaled by a wall of spikes. They blinked dumbly at the sight. Isben breathed a sigh of relief, and Shêza stared at the pressure plate realigning itself with the floor and the wall moving back into its seemingly harmless position.

"And that could have been you," Isben muttered lightly.

Shêza turned her head back to Isben. Her nails were seconds away from transforming into claws and had punctured his leather armor. She retracted them from him and leapt out of his arms to land lithely on all fours. She moved away from him, still a safe distance away from the pressure plate, but far enough to see his entire profile.

Isben mumbled to himself, and Shêza heard the words 'rabies', 'disease', and 'infected.' He tenderly assessed the scratches in his shoulder and chest. He brought his hand to his jaw and winced at the bruise forming and at Shêza's handiwork. Finding that the damage wasn't too severe, he looked up to see Shêza glancing back and forth between himself and the plate. He swallowed, thinking that she was scheming a way to have him join Arvel on the spiky wall. After all, he was the one who wanted to help the thief down from the web, and she could have been killed from his naïvety.

"Look, w-we can talk about this, Shêza," Isben stammered when she crept closer to him. By the Gods, she was going to kill him! "I-I know you're not much of a conversationalist, b-but..." His voice died off as the finality of the moment hit him. He sunk to the floor and weakly crawled backward to press himself against the wall. He'd only been a nuisance and hindrance to her, and now, alone in the depths of Bleak Falls Barrow, where no one would hear his screams or her triumphant roar, he was going to die. She'd no doubt hang his corpse right by Arvel's and admire their two lifeless forms—maybe even invite Farengar and Jarl Balgruuf to have a drink while pointing and laughing at the two fools resembling game proudly displayed on a wall.

Isben closed his eyes and whimpered when she was mere inches from him. He turned his head away, his lip trembling, as he felt a feather-light touch on his shoulder.

Shêza hesitantly grazed her fingers against his injured shoulder. She frowned and looked at him. She peeled back the leather from his shoulder to reveal the torn cloth of his tunic and his punctured skin. The smell of urine filled her nose, and she glanced down to see pee spread over the floor.

_He is afraid of me, _she thought. _This twit is actually afraid of me. _She blinked at him in wonder and wiped the blood from his jaw with her thumb before turning her attention back to his shoulder. She leaned closer to sniff the wound and felt his body go completely still, as if he was waiting for her to tear his flesh off with her teeth.

Isben opened his eyes when he heard a whimper that didn't come from him. He looked over at Shêza right in time to witness her lick the punctures. He snapped his eyes closed and whipped his head away, certain that he'd faint. Kynareth, Akatosh, Dibella—she was going to eat him! She was merely sampling his taste! Oh, Gods, he knew she was rabid!

Shêza cleaned his shoulder until blood stopped oozing from the wounds. She whined softly and leaned back on her haunches, not minding the urine her feet were in.

This was it, she was going to kill him. Isben sucked in a breath. First she'd cut him up into tiny chewable pieces, maybe sauté him or roast him on a spit afterward or grill his ears into nice crispy biscuits.

She shook her head when he started hyperventilating, and delivered a swift slap to his forehead. He quieted and stole a peep at her. When he saw her looking more than a little annoyed, but not at all in the mood for grilled-Isben-on-a-stick, he squirmed and chuckled nervously. A new emotion fluttered over Shêza's face, one that he wasn't even sure if he saw, but swore that it was guilt.

It was gone in a heartbeat. She cleared her throat and stood over him. Without a word, she pulled him to his feet and made sure he was steady before letting go. "Let's go," she said in a clipped tone without meeting his bewildered expression. She made to press forward, but went still as a statue. She sniffed the air and held her hand up in silence when Isben opened his mouth to speak.

Something rotting was in the room, and it wasn't Arvel's body. She inhaled as deeply as she could and let the breath out in a shudder. _No, not just a something. _Many _somethings, _she thought.

Isben's heart stopped when she looked at him. Her lip was curled back and that rabid look was in her eyes again. _I should have held my breath until I died. She's going to kill me! _

He screamed when she lunged at him.


	7. Bleak Falls Barrow: Draugr, Claw, Fus

Skyrim belongs to Bethesda. Any OC in this story is mine, though. :) Enjoy!

* * *

Shêza shoved Isben out of her way and dove at the skeleton-like figure behind him. She tore into it with her dagger, wrenching it free when the monster swiped at her with its sword. She hissed and deflected the blow, then tackled the creature to the ground and sliced its corded neck open.

Isben shook where he stood, gripping the wall behind him for support. His heart almost leaped out of his throat when he felt something latch onto him. He turned his head and almost wished that he hadn't. A bony hand, the skin stretched tight, had itself locked around his wrist. Isben shouted, catching Shêza's attention. Her eyes darted over to him struggling to free himself, but she was too preoccupied with two more of the skeleton-like monsters to assist him.

She hissed and, satisfied that Isben wouldn't see, scratched at one of them with her claws while slicing the other one with her dagger.

Isben pried and pulled, but the hand wouldn't let go of him. His blood went cold as the hand slowly become an arm, a shoulder, then a torso, and finally, when the monster pulled itself out of its shelf—_coffin—_he was face to face with it.

It wasn't a skeleton, as it had skin, though it was thin and shriveled to wrap tightly around bones and organs. Nor was it a zombie, as there were no signs of decay or rot. And it certainly wasn't a wraith; it lacked the telltale screech.

Whatever it was, one thing was for certain: it was angry. No, not angry. _Incensed. _Complete and utterly incensed at him for disturbing its slumber. It raged at him with a roar of garbled words that were almost deafening.

He swallowed heavily. His first choice of reaction would be to scream in terror. His second would be to scream right _back _at it, as he didn't appreciate having his hair blown back from his face from the sheer force of its shouting and the monster's spittle and dust decorating his forehead.

Divines, these were the least of his problems!

With a shout, Isben used his free elbow and rammed it down on the creature's offending hand. It lost its grip on him, but its hand hardly suffered any damage—not even a bone broke, these things were so hardy!

The skeleton-like being uttered more nonsense in outrage before swiping its hand at him. The slap landed hard on his wounded shoulder, and Isben backed away with a yelp. He quickly reached for his knife and held it clumsily in his hand. The monster lumbered after him, cackling and smiling in delight of having its prey backed up into a wall.

When it was close enough, Isben lunged at it. His aim was terribly off and only nicked the creature's arm. Clumps of blood fell from the wound, and it hissed in irritation. Isben ducked around it when it swung its fist at him again. It chased after him, gurgling out more nonsense, but every time it tried to knock Isben off balance, he somehow managed to slip away.

This little game of cat and mouse continued until they were on either side of a pillar. When Isben would try to sneak to the right, it would cut him off. When he'd scurry over to the left, there it would be.

Both monster and half-elf huffed at each other. The monster, having grown impatient, braced its legs and charged at Isben. He gasped and dove to the right, hoping that he'd leapt far enough away.

He hadn't. His ankle caught on the monster's, and Isben fell to the ground. He clenched his teeth when his bad shoulder slammed against the floor and tried to turn on his back to defend himself.

But there was no need to. Shêza, with her two opponents slain, tackled the thing to the ground right beside Isben and buried her knife in its skull. It flailed beneath her, one of its elbows slamming into her jaw, but she was relentless, hacking at the base of its neck until its head rolled off of its tight-skinned body.

She panted on top of it and absently wiped the blood from her jaw. The monster's lifeless eyes stared right into Isben's, and he swallowed nervously.

"What in the name of Oblivion _are _these?" he muttered as Shêza helped him up.

"Draugar," she said. She gave the corpses a disgusted glare. "Very ancient, strong Nordic warriors."

He cleared his throat and rubbed his sore wrist. "Strong, indeed!"

"They're said to have served Dragons." Isben paled at her words, those black eyes staring right at him burning in his mind.

"There... isn't a Dragon in here, is there?" he whispered.

"No," she said immediately. "I would have smelled it." She realized her mistake too late, but if Isben noticed the panic in her eyes, he didn't say anything.

"I suppose the smell of smoke and dragon-breath would be a dead giveaway," he mused to himself. "I'd prefer this place to flood with an army of slaughterfish than face a Dragon."

"Why? Just to pick their scales and eggs?" she asked with a smirk.

He smiled at her, a cute but somehow still annoying little smile, and she rolled her eyes at him. "We should continue. No doubt your screaming woke more of them up."

"Just a moment," he said as he walked over to Arvel's corpse, mindful of the pressure plate. With Arvel pinned to the wall of spikes, it was easy to loot his belongings without any trouble.

"What are you doing?" she spat. She grabbed his wrist, her grip iron-tight, and glared at him murderously. "Maybe it's acceptable for elves to pick off the dead, but here in Skyrim, we have a little respect for those in Sovngarde."

"Which I clearly witnessed just minutes ago." He motioned over to the dead Draugar. "I just want the Golden Claw." He sighed when she seemed even more disgusted with him. "Listen: I'm not one to be seduced by mountains of gold or wealth—I've lived a content, paltry life. My hunch is that this claw—whatever it is—will unlock something. Hopefully a _door, _as in the door leading to the Dragonstone."

Her grip eventually loosened on his wrist enough for him to pull free to continue rifling through Arvel's knapsack. "And to add a point in my favor," Isben said, "I'm sure the owner of the claw would want it back." He grinned and pulled the claw out. It was a wondrous piece of work, looking exactly like a Dragon claw. Upon closer inspection, he saw tiny intricate scales etched into the claw.

"This would put several Akaviri artifacts to shame," he breathed out in awe. "If this is as ancient as Bleak Falls Barrow, it's in remarkable condition. Of course, Lucan might have swept it down with an oil cloth, but all the same."

Shêza didn't seem nearly as impressed with it as he was. "Can we go? I don't want to wait around for the Draugar to find us." When he didn't hear her and still rummaged through Arvel's bag, she huffed, snatched the bag from him, and shook all its contents out onto the floor.

He frowned, tutting something about rabies, and picked up a journal amongst Arvel's other mundane belongings. Isben nodded in understanding when he finished reading the journal. "So he _did_ steal it from Lucan. He runs the Riverwood Trader—"

"I know who he is," Shêza said. She took the journal from him and flipped through its few tattered pages. "'When you have the golden claw, the solution is in the palm of your hands.' Rubbish," she snorted.

"Even thieves have a right to creative license." Isben shrugged. "Well, shall we?"

* * *

There were more Draugr tombs in the Barrow, and Isben and Shêza developed the semblance of a routine: Shêza, since she had more experience in battle, would leap at them with her dagger and cut the closest one to shreds, while Isben, having more experience _running _from battle, would distract the other Draugar until Shêza would finish them off.

It was silly, and he still felt like bait, but it got the job done.

They stopped just in front of a narrow hallway with a set of three axes swinging horizontally across the passage. Isben cleared his throat nervously and shifted on his feet. "I have a bad feeling about this."

She grunted and crouched closer to the axes. She studied the rhythm that they swung to and their different paces. After a moment, she nodded. "There is enough time to clear it before they swing back." She stood and flexed her muscles.

He stared incredulously at her, his mouth gaping open. "You can't be serious—what if you don't make it?"

She let out an annoyed _tch _at his question, and before he could protest more, sprinted through the hallway. He gasped and closed his eyes, waiting for the sound of flesh being punctured by blades. When the axes still cut through the air with quiet hisses, he slowly crept closer to the hallway and dared to open his eyes.

There was Shêza, grinning smugly in victory and unscathed as could be on the other side of the axes. She felt along the wall and smiled again when her fingers brushed against a pull chain. "Lucky for you," she said with her teeth bared, "you won't have to brave the axes." She pulled the chain down, and the axes came to a screeching halt. He eyed them still, not trusting whether or not this was another trap. She groaned when he still didn't move.

Carefully, and ignoring her complaints, he edged around the blades, letting out a breath he didn't know he'd been holding only when he was safely by Shêza's side.

"Man-child," she muttered. The Barrow was still filled with inane Draugar, but they were clumsy and unsteady on muscles so unused to movement.

Soon, Bleak Falls Barrow opened up into a cavern, and when Isben took a sudden intake of breath, Shêza had her bow out and arrow nocked in a heartbeat, waiting for another Draugr to rush them. Instead, Isben hurried over to a pillar of rock in the cavern, splashing through a small stream (Shêza cringed at how noisy he was), and started plucking at the pillar.

"What are you doing?" she hissed.

"Glowing mushrooms," he said. "I'm surprised they even grow here. They're excellent reagents for suppressing the effects of a lightning-based attack, you know. My guess is that the natural light they produce has something to do with that. Of course, I'm no expert on glowing mushrooms."

Shêza blinked at him, her nostrils flaring in boredom and irritation. She took him by the arm and dragged him onward. He somehow managed to pry more of the mushrooms off the cavern walls and stuff them into his pack. After he had used an empty vial to scrape bonemeal from the Draugar, she supposed mushrooms were less disgusting.

Still, she didn't want to know what else he kept in his knapsack.

* * *

"Did your Ayleid ruins ever have one of these?" Shêza asked as she stared at a wall with three different rotatable wheels in the center of it, each depicting a different animal of Skyrim. In the middle of the wheels was a round plate with three holes, and the plate had the outline of a claw etched into it.

"No," Isben called from the opposite end of the hall. He held his torch closer to the walls, murmuring to himself in utter fascination of the scenes they detailed—as if the walls were tapestries made of stone. "This must be the Hall of Stories Arvel mentioned in his journal. Just what stories are these?"

Shêza groaned and rolled her eyes. "I'm more interested in _this _wall, which clearly the claw belongs in."

"These are _Dragons!" _he said excitedly, pointing at the stonework. "Have Dragons always been in Skyrim?"

"If they lived here, there would be more Helgens, wouldn't you think?"

"Of course," he said with a dry chuckle. After a few more moments of trying to figure out what tale the Hall of Stories illustrated, Isben joined Shêza. He pulled the claw out of his pack and she aligned it with the holes in the plate.

"How are we sure if these animals," he pointed at the wheels in the wall, "are aligned correctly?"

"The other walls didn't have any clues?"

"Oh yes," he snorted, "the Dragons burning down cities were very helpful in solving this."

She shook her head and turned the claw over in her hand. She raised an eyebrow at the three symbols scrawled into the claw's palm. Wordlessly, she changed the animals on the wheels until they matched those of the claw—Isben looking over her shoulder to see what she was doing—and placed the claw in its proper place in the plate.

The wall creaked and groaned as the wheels spun. Dirt and dust fell from the wall, as it was not a wall but a _door. _Eventually, the door lowered itself into the floor, but not without Isben snatching the claw from it first.

"Lucan," he said as a reminder when Shêza looked at him. They moved past the door, Shêza in front, into another cavern. This one was much more narrow and danker than the one with the glowing mushrooms. It was also quite dark.

Isben put a hand on Shêza's shoulder, and every muscle in her body coiled and tensed at the innocent touch. She took in a deep breath, schooling herself into not biting his fingers off.

"Do you hear that?" he said so softly she had to strain her ears to hear him. They went completely still, their breaths hardly audible as Shêza listened around them.

"No," she said.

"It's..." Whatever it was, it was very faint. His brow furrowed and he cocked his head to the side, staring straight ahead of him. "It's a chant."

"You're imagining things," she grunted. She continued walking, shrugging Isben's hand off of her shoulder.

"No, I'm not." He hurried over and stood in front of her, blocking her way. There was fear in his eyes, and he stared pleadingly at her. "It's a chant, I know it is. Though, judging by the deep sounds, I say it's male. Or maybe just a woman with very bad vocals." He sighed when Shêza brushed past him and followed at her heels.

The ceiling of the cavern opened up, revealing waterfalls cascading into a pool that surrounded a small island. The sight was quite beautiful, Isben noted, but what was more fascinating was the slab of rock on the island—rather, the glowing etchings on the rock.

And the closer they moved to the rock, the louder the chants became. They crossed the bridge leading to the island, and Shêza sniffed the air for any danger. She growled at a coffin placed at the head of the island, smelling something very foul, very dark, but _very _much alive—or undead.

A sudden groan drew her attention away from the coffin toward Isben, who had fallen on his knees. He clutched his head in both hands, pulling his hair free of its holder, and curled into his chest. The chant was booming, both in his head and around the cavern, echoing off of the stone walls. It was surrounding him, choking him, and even when he plugged his ears with his fingers he could still _hear it—_

Feel it. He could _feel _it. The words the voice sang—the voice itself, so familiar, so comforting, so frightening that he realized it was his _own _voice coming from that rock, his own mouth making those horrid words of a forgotten language.

And yet, his mouth was closed. He was not chanting, he was not saying anything, and yet he _was. _

Shêza cautiously approached him, noticing his quaking shoulders. _The elf's finally gone mad. It was bound to happen, I knew it. Stupid man-child. _She drew her dagger in case he made any sudden, violent moves.

She stood behind him, not certain what to do. She couldn't hear a damned thing besides the loud splashes the waterfalls made and his own frantic breathing. Carefully, he brought himself to his feet, shaky as they were, and hobbled over to the rock.

The words were roaring now, blocking out everything else in the world except the glowing markings in the rock and the deafening chanting. His vision was blackening around the corners, and yet he knew his eyes were opened as wide as possible. He told his body _no, step back _when he realized that the closer he came to the rock, the more his vision darkened.

But his feet would not listen as his voice pulled him closer. When he was pressed against the stone, everything was black, save for those glowing markings. They were bright—_too bright, burning through his eyes, burning like the eyes of that Dragon—_and when he closed his eyes to block out the light, he could still see them. It was as if they were burned behind his eyelids. He tried to scream when he felt another pull against his soul, but his voice was drowned out as something—

Something wispy, something like string and smooth as silk yet cold as a blade, forced its way into his mouth and into his throat. He blinked his eyes rapidly, trying to push the darkness away. He tried to close his mouth, but it was pried open, something keeping it open so that the glowing markings could complete their transformation into his body.

He heard Shêza shout something, but couldn't make out her words.

She hissed and whirled around as the coffin's lid came popping off. A terrible smell filled the cavern, and she fought the urge to cover her nose. She growled, the hair on the back of her neck standing on end, and flexed her fingers.

This was no ordinary Draugr. She knew that it was something far more sinister as it pulled itself out of its coffin. Its eyes beneath its helmet gleamed with ice-blue rage, and it snarled at her and brandished its weapon.

She stood her ground, growling louder in warning, the claws of one hand outstretched while the other held her dagger. The Draugr seemed to laugh as it realized what exactly she was, and it clanged its sword against its shield as a taunt.

She snapped her teeth in outrage, spit flying from her lips, and sprung at the Draugr. Their blades locked together, and she swiped at its exposed bony hip with her claws. But the Draugr countered her attack by using its shield and bashing it against her hand. She hissed in pain and sidestepped away from the Draugr. She shook out her hand before leaping at it again.

But before she was even close enough to slice at it, she was flung back in the air, as if she was dead weight, and landed in the pool.

* * *

_Fus._

The word echoed in Isben's head, its meaning unknown and yet perfectly clear to him. He didn't know—he _shouldn't _know—what it meant. But he did, and he didn't, and he didn't know how to use it, but he _did _know how to use it.

The word rolled around his mouth like wine, but when he tried to speak it, it barred itself away from his innermost reaches, retreating into the darkest recesses of his mind. He tried to coax it out, but it would not come.

Something was locking it away. Or, rather, he was lacking the means necessary to unlock it.

_"Fus... Ro... Dah!"_

Isben blinked his vision back into focus, the world and the cavern slamming back into reality in a single moment. His head pounded at the sudden invasion, but he ignored the throbbing enough to see Shêza charging a Draugr. The Draugr itself was terrifying, but what was more terrifying were the words that it choked out. They were raspy and dry, as if it had been hundreds of years since this Draugr had last walked—or when it was last Man and not Undead.

The words, he could understand. _Something _inside him knew what they meant.

Shêza was launched backward just as the last syllable left the Draugr's mouth. A blue wave escaped its thin lips, as if force itself was given a form. The wave washed over Shêza, rippling into her entire being, and dissipated, sending her flying backward.

_Fus._

_Force._

The Draugr, satisfied that Shêza was no longer a threat, turned to Isben.

* * *

A/N: I actually do not know for certain if it is 'Fus Ro Da' or 'Fus Ro Dah'. In the guide book, it's 'Dah', but when Draugr use it and subtitles is turned on, it's 'Da'. So if I ever switch from Dah to Da, you know why.


	8. Savior and Hero

Skyrim belongs to Bethesda, any OC in this is mine, though! Thanks for the feedback, and enjoy! :)

* * *

Isben's knees trembled as he held onto the rock wall for support. His eyes were as round as saucers as he stared at the Draugr, blinking dumbly at it as the _plunk _of Shêza's body landing in the pool echoed throughout the cavern. His fingers dug into the wall, disturbing gravel and dust.

The Draugr banged its sword against its shield, bellowing a taunt out at Isben. It pointed its sword at him, gurgling out more nonsense. "_Aav Dilon!" _

No, not nonsense. It was a language, the same language that _Fus _belonged to. Isben groaned and clutched his forehead as another tremor racked through his body. He shouldn't know these words—_he shouldn't, he shouldn't, _but he _does._

_Join the Dead._

The Draugr roared once more, puffing its chest out and raising its sword at Isben again. He drew his dagger with trembling hands, knowing that the probability of this long-dead Nord killing him was extremely high.

Gods, he'd prefer death just to make the pounding in his head _stop. _

And it was gone. In a heartbeat, the pain receded until no trace of it was left. Isben blinked and took a step backward, trying to justify what just happened. The dizzying pain that _Fus _brought him was no more, but he could still feel the word in the back of his mind: there, but not willing to come forth.

The Draugr snarled and charged Isben. It grabbed him by his armor and tossed him across the island. He landed hard on his side and shouted when he felt his bones protest from the abuse. He drew himself to his knees, somehow still holding onto his dagger, and faced the Draugr.

It was running at him again, and Isben took a wild slash at it when he thought it was within reach. His dagger just missed its torso, and the Draugr used its shield to slam it against Isben's wrist, flinging the dagger out of his clutches.

He screamed when his wrist snapped, his leather armor not providing enough protection to defend against the force of the Draugr's attack. The Draugr hauled him to his feet before tossing him again. It cackled out a laugh when Isben hit the rock wall.

_"Bolog Aaz, Mal Lir!" _

The Draugr looked down at him, a gruesome smile twisted on its rotting face. It wouldn't be satisfied by delivering a swift death to him, Isben knew that. It was infuriated that the words on the wall had reacted to him—_him, this pathetic half-elf, half-Nord intruder of the Draugr's slumber—_

When it leaned down to his level, Isben plunged one of his arrows into its ribcage. It shrieked and took a step back, gripping the arrow shaft and pulling it out with a swift yank. Blood spilled and dripped from the wound, and instead of the sight repulsing Isben, he was actually glad to see the Draugr in pain.

But his triumph was short-lived as the Draugr crushed its shield against Isben's jaw on the same side that Arvel punched. The pain was mind-rattling and numbing at the same time. It knocked the light from his eyes as black dots and stars danced across his vision like a twisted tango. It was only seconds before the full onslaught of ambiguity, haze, and pain roared in his jaw.

The Draugr was not finished. Its ice-blue eyes flashed as Isben struggled to maintain his grip on reality. When he tried to stand, the Draugr roared out the same words it had used on Shêza. Isben was flung against the wall, his limbs outstretched and head colliding with the rock. The wave of force slammed into him, restricting him from drawing breath, keeping him from moving his arms and legs.

The force strained against his muscles, even as it dissipated. His limbs were giving off fitful spasms, trying to ward off the effects of whatever the Draugr used on them.

Isben's vision swam; the colors of the cavern and the Draugr blurred together, and soon enough, he was seeing two Draugar instead of one. His mind muddled, he didn't see the Draugr raise its sword.

He should have noticed it sooner. His years in the University gave him ample opportunity to visit his Enchanter colleagues. He had a few acquaintances that had let him watch them as they worked their craft and embedded magicka into weapons and armor. Enchanted items always carried a sheen around them, like a magicka-infused backdrop. Depending on the enchantment, the glow would differ in color and intensity.

He knew the Draugr's sword was enchanted when he felt the blade slowly drag across his chest. It wasn't the slice itself, but the stabs of pain that soon followed as ice bloomed and formed in the wake of the Draugr's sword.

He screamed. Loud and shrill, as there was no other sound to convey how much it _hurt. _His neck protested as he craned it to stare dumbly at his chest. Icicles had formed in a horizontal line and stood out of his flesh at odd angles. He felt light-headed from staring at the ice creeping over his skin, but there was nothing that could pull his gaze away, not even when the Draugr's face was inches from his, its putrid breath fanning across his face.

Death was welcomed to Isben. If it would take away the sight of his flesh freezing and banish the pain, he'd accept it with open arms.

The Draugr was too preoccupied enjoying Isben's final moments to hear the splashes coming from behind it. Injured, but annoyed and infuriated beyond all reason, Shêza climbed onto the island, her feet struggling to find toeholds. She grabbed a fist-sized rock by the Draugr's coffin, and with a screech, flung herself onto its back. She dragged it down with her as she fell to the floor and wrapped her legs around its torso. The impact made it lose its grip on its enchanted sword, and the offending blade skittered across the stone ground. The Draugr snarled and flailed its limbs wildly in an attempt to free itself.

She growled and bit its helmet. With a swift jerk of her head, it went flying off of the Draugr, and with its skull exposed to her, she sank her fangs into the bone. It screamed and fought her grip until she felt her arms and legs would pop from their sockets. Her pupils narrowed in fury, and holding its head with her teeth, she pummeled the rock into its face mercilessly.

_"Fus Ro Dah!" _

The power of the words could not reach Shêza since the Draugr's back was to her. The ceiling of the cavern shook as the blue force waves collided with it. Chunks of rock and stalactites fell from the ceiling, landing dangerously close to Shêza and the Draugr. She paid them no mind: her sole goal was to put an end to the prey locked in her grasp.

The Draugr bellowed in outrage, completely furious that a werefolk was besting it. The shame was all-consuming, the humiliation insufferable. All that came to a close when Shêza ripped its head off.

She spat the Draugr head out of her mouth and untangled herself from it only when she was satisfied that it was _really _dead. As a hunter, she knew the benefits that a wounded prey had by playing dead, and she was not about to give the Draugr the upper hand.

She hissed at its corpse and tenderly felt along her temple. There was a cut there from when the Draugr had used its voice to push her back. Adrenaline had blocked out the pain, but now that the sing of battle was quieting in her veins, the cut stung, and the skin around it itched. She snarled and shook her head at the Draugr before turning toward Isben.

He had slid from the stone wall and sat in a slumped heap, his face bent forward and arms sprawled out on either side of him with his palms faced up. Shêza stood over him, horrified by the ice protruding from his chest. She whipped her head back and forth and quickly knelt at his level. She tapped his forehead rapidly, frowning when she didn't receive a response.

She growled and prodded his nose. "Wake up," she hissed. He didn't make the smallest movement. She swallowed and poked his jaw. She let out a breath when he uttered a weak groan. His eyes only opened halfway, and no matter how many times she angled his face, they wouldn't focus on her.

* * *

The world was blurring. Colors bled into each other, figures became fuzzy and disoriented. He could vaguely see a shape in front of him. He heard her voice, the words jumbled and jumping around in his brain. Nothing she said made sense to him, and when he tried to tell her, his heart leapt with fear when he couldn't move his mouth.

He couldn't move a single part of him, as if his muscles were locked together with the key thrown away. He felt something being pulled from his chest, but it was a numb feeling: he felt the release of pressure, felt something warm slide across his body. And then something tight wrapped around his torso, keeping the warmth from spreading.

He felt all the weight in his body leave him. Part of him wondered if this was what death felt like, but the other part—the logical part—rationalized that he was being lifted off the ground.

Then the warmth from his chest was gone. In its place was a small tingle that soon morphed into searing heat. It burned at his skin, at his armor and clothes, and spread throughout his body. He felt it in his forehead: the feverish slither of a snake. It was scorching his body, and he almost wished for more icicles to extinguish the burns. His mouth opened to let out a moan, but if she heard it, she didn't stop.

* * *

He awoke to the comforting sounds of quiet footsteps padding this way and that, plates bumping against each other as they were stacked, and the crackle of a fireplace. He smelled herbs—imp stool, wheat, and blue mountain flowers—and salves. He gingerly peeled his eyes open, blinking and taking in careful breaths as his vision cleared. He idly felt along his chest for his wounds, but his fingers only met soft bandages.

He frowned when he found himself staring up at wood and knew that he was in a house.

But there were no houses in Bleak Falls Barrow—not any that he noticed, anyway—

Isben groaned and covered his eyes as the memory of the Draugr came flooding back to him. _That's just one more nightmare I need. It'll stay nice and cozy by my Dragon nightterrors._

"Isben! You're awake! Thank Talos; we thought we were going to lose you!" A cool hand touched his forehead and brushed away stray locks of hair from his brow. "Your fever broke. How are you feeling?"

He sluggishly pried his eyes open again, surprised to see Gerdur staring at him with a worried yet relieved face. He swallowed and flapped his tongue uselessly. It felt thick and dry and alien in his mouth, and he was relieved when Gerdur helped him to a glass of water.

He only had a few sips before falling back into the fur-lined bed. "H-how..." he rasped out. "Sh-Shê—"

"Shh," she murmured. "Everything is alright: you're going to make a full recovery. Rest, now—don't think about anything. Just sleep."

He gave a small nod and his eyes fell closed. For some reason, female presences always had a soothing effect on men, especially those that were ill or wounded. Before sleep claimed him again, he felt Gerdur place a cool rag on his forehead.

* * *

He was out of bed two days later. And back in Riverwood he was, though he didn't leave Gerdur's house. It was still difficult to focus, and if it wasn't the nightmares keeping him from resting, then it was the room swaying to and fro.

Camilla had visited to express how worried she was, and he took the opportunity to give the Golden Claw to her. She beamed at him and planted a full-out kiss on his lips, proclaiming that her brother would be so happy and thrilled to finally have the claw back in his possession.

When she left the house, he grimaced and wiped his mouth on the back of his hand, cringing when he saw lipstain smeared on his knuckles.

"She didn't stay?" he asked as he, Gerdur, Hod, and Frodnar sat at the table for supper. Ralof had left the day before for Windhelm after wishing Isben luck and giving him a pat on the arm—and also the words of wisdom "don't get yourself killed, now."

Gerdur shook her head and took a bite from her roasted pheasant. "I'm afraid not. She didn't even pass into Riverwood's gates. If I hadn't been at the mill, I think she would have left you there."

"I thought she was from Riverwood, though. She said she knew Lucan," he said.

Hod snorted and smirked at Isben. "She is not welcome in Riverwood—none of her folk are."

Gerdur sighed at her husband and put more beets on Isben's plate. He murmured a 'thank you.' "Shêzanaré lives a little ways from here. She hardly ever visits, as I imagine she has no need to."

"And it's best it stays that way," Hod said with a firm nod. "We don't need any more outsiders traipsing around. _Especially _those of Shêzanaré's caliber."

"And what kind of caliber is that?" Isben said. Though she hadn't stayed to see his recovery, it didn't surprise him. She seemed the type to avoid unnecessary interaction with people.

"No doubt you've noticed her charming social skills," Gerdur said with a chuckle.

"You'd be better off if you didn't associate yourself further with her," Hod said, "just as we'd be better off without a half-breed under our roof."

"Shêzanaré means well," Gerdur said before Isben could defend himself against Hod's accusation. "She is just very shrew-like, I suppose you could say. Even if she's uncouth, she knows the meanings of loyalty and honor."

"Hardly," Hod scoffed. "She's an animal—"

Even if Shêza viewed him as a cowardly lump of meat, he liked to think of her as a friend—a friend that would sooner use him as bait before asking him how his day was, but a friend nonetheless. He understood why Hod's assertions boiled his blood, and he'd be damned if he'd let Hod, a cheating womanizer unworthy of Gerdur's hand and womb, roll Shêza's name around in dirt.

"Which is why she went through the trouble of saving my bottom from being killed by a Draugr," Isben deadpanned. He smiled coldly when Hod glared at him from across the table. "And that's why she carried me to Riverwood to make sure that I wouldn't die, yes? Because she's a barbarian."

"Don't smitten yourself with a beast," Hod whispered with a warning in his voice.

"Hardly," Isben mimicked dryly.

* * *

He left the next morning. He was by no means ready to leave, but he'd never been one to have a person cluck around him and tend to his every need, even though he knew Gerdur was only concerned for him. If he stayed in Riverwood for one more day, he'd lose his mind.

Well, what was left of it.

Lucan had given him a healing potion free of charge when he learned that Isben was leaving. "A small token of my thanks for bringing the claw back to me," Lucan had said. He'd rather the man put a restraining order on Camilla than give him a potion.

It helped with his headaches and pain in his jaw, but he'd need something stronger to completely heal himself. He was hoping that once he was back in Whiterun, Arcadia would be willing to let him use her alchemy lab to brew up a few potions. His face was far from returning to its usual olive tone, and he thought ironically that with skin so pale, he looked like a Draugr.

Isben neatly stacked the furs on his borrowed bed. Propped against his nightstand was a sword, and he recognized it as the enchanted sword the Draugr had used against him. Isben hesitantly touched the hilt of the sword, afraid that it might have a memory of its own and lash out at him. When it still remained stoic and still, he gripped the hilt and held it up.

Now that he had a proper look of it, it was nowhere near as terrifying as it once was. The ice-blue sheen—_like the Draugr's eyes—_was still tinted to the blade, but the blade itself was dented and dulled by time. Still, it was a weapon all the same.

He hoisted his pack over his shoulder and frowned when he felt something jab into his spine. He set his knapsack down and looked through its contents. Bewildered, he pulled out a slab of stone in the shape of a pentagon. Its edges looked crumbled away, but aside from that, it looked to be in good condition.

He shook his head at the object before it dawned on him. He was holding the Dragonstone. He smiled, making a mental reminder to thank Shêza numerously the next time he saw her—

_If _he saw her. She was probably long gone, cackling in joy from finally being rid of the annoying half-elf. Still, Gerdur had said she lived near Riverwood. Perhaps he'd see her on the way to Whiterun? He shrugged and packed the Dragonstone away before heading out of Gerdur's house.

He didn't see hide nor tail of Shêzanaré.

* * *

Isben knocked on the doorframe before letting himself into Farengar's office.

Farengar was hunched over his desk, babbling away to an unfamiliar figure garbed in a hood and leather armor. "The context used in these aren't modern," Farengar said excitedly. "This is clearly First Era terminology and text. Maybe even older, actually. This must be a copy of the original work to be understood better—oh, it's you!" He looked up from his work to see Isben in the doorway. "Please, come in, come in, ah—what was your name again?"

"Isben," he said with amusement, watching Farengar scramble about his office.

"I trust you have the Dragonstone with you?" The Court Wizard glowed when Isben pulled it out of his pack and handed it to him. "I'm glad to see that the Jarl's judgment has improved and that you aren't the same brand of monkey as the other brutes that came this way. I'm sure Proventus Avenicci will be more than obliged to see your reward in gold's weight."

Isben smiled and inclined his head in thanks. He glanced at Farengar's guest, giving her a curious look. Farengar cleared his throat. "My... _associate _here will be delighted by the outcome of your efforts. She was the one who located the Dragonstone." He gestured to his guest.

"The Dragonstone seems a bit... cryptic for the average adventurer to stumble across," Isben noted.

She looked up from the book she and Farengar were discussing. "Indeed," she said in a tone that closed off any further prodding from him.

Farengar shifted on his heels and looked between the two of them nervously.

The shady figure sighed and folded her arms over her chest. "That was good work you did going into the Barrow," she said. "I'm impressed: I expected another fool to die from the Draugar."

"And I expected a much less _shady _operation to work for," Isben said with a polite smile.

She didn't reply to him, but the corners of her mouth pulled downward as she pursed her lips. She turned her attention over to Farengar. "I'll be expecting a copy of the translated version soon, Farengar."

"Of course, of course!" he chattered. "I'll work on it at once—"

"Farengar!"

Isben and Farengar whirled around to see Irileth panting in the doorway.

"Irileth? This is most unlike you," Farengar said confoundedly. "Is something wrong? Has Shêza failed to hunt for us again?"

"No, you _fool!_" she snapped at him. "A Dragon has been sighted outside of the city!" Her usually fierce and composed face was lined with worry and fear.

Isben blanched and held onto Farengar's desk to stay standing. The Court Wizard didn't seem to notice, as he was too busy asking Irileth questions about the Dragon. _Mages and their research, _Isben thought irritably.

Irileth pointed a finger at Isben. "You will come, too. Jarl Balgruuf mustn't be kept waiting any longer."

"A Dragon? Are you certain it was a Dragon?" Farengar asked excitedly. "How big was it? Where was it last seen? What was it doing?"

"I'd be more concerned about Whiterun, if I were you," Irileth reprimanded. "This is far more pressing than your research, Farengar. If the Dragon attacks, I don't know if we can stop it."

Isben blocked out the rest of Farengar's noisy chatting as Irileth led the way up a flight of stairs adjacent to the throne room.

Jarl Balgruuf stood with a strict and tall posture, his arms tightly wound about his chest, as if to contain himself from the devastating news a Whiterun guard, still red in the face from his journey up to Dragonsreach, told him.

"And you said it was at the western watchtower?" the Jarl asked in a strained voice.

"Yes, my Jarl," the guard panted. "Everything I told Irileth is true: it came from the south, moving faster than... than anything, my lord!"

"And the watchtower?" Balgruuf demanded. "Is the watchtower under attack?"

"No, my Jarl. It was circling overhead just as I left." The guard's composure broke, and he lowered his head. His voice trembled as he choked out, "I never ran so fast in my life. It was like as if I slowed down, it would descend upon me for sure."

Isben gave him a sympathetic look. He knew that feeling all too well.

Jarl Balgruuf placed a hand on the guard's shoulder. Isben noticed that the guard couldn't have had more than twenty summers on him—an age far too young to be associated with Dragons.

"You've done well," Balgruuf said. "Head to the barracks, help yourself to some food and rest. You've earned it." The guard nodded and saluted Balgruuf before leaving. The Jarl of Whiterun sighed and ran a hand through his hair. "Irileth, I need you to rally the guardsmen. Everyone must be aware of this possible attack."

"My men are already waiting for your command at the city gates," she declared, standing straight.

He nodded and looked over at Isben. "There is no time to waste. I'm afraid we will have to wait until we can properly acknowledge your efforts toward Whiterun. Your help would greatly be appreciated."

Isben looked at the Jarl as if he was out of his mind. _His _help? If only the Jarl knew that he couldn't even aim straight with a bow.

"You are a survivor of Helgen," the Jarl continued. "You know these Dragons; my men and Irileth don't. Serve them as much as you can."

The rest came in a blur to Isben as he finally comprehended what the Jarl wanted of him. He was to fight a Dragon, slay it, and save Whiterun from destruction. Just because he narrowly managed to avoid the black Dragon's fires at Helgen, the Jarl thought him a hero and suitable for this mission.

_Divines above, I beseech your help in my time of need. Please, let this be a dream._

* * *

Translations:

_Bolog Aaz, Mal Lir: _Beg for mercy, little king (rough translation)

**Note: the plural of Draugr is Draugar. This is not a typo :)


	9. Purpose

Skyrim belongs to Bethesda, but all OCs are mine :) Sorry for the delay; I needed more time for inspiration. And sorry if the spacing between paragraphs/dialogue is messed up :l There might be a few places that need a space, please let me know if I missed any! Thanks, and enjoy :)

* * *

The werefolk worshiped nightfall for a reason. The darkness surrounded her panting body; the shadows of the trees cast longer than usual to blend into each other. Crickets chirped and frogs croaked nearby, their droning love-calls like a soothing balm to her after a night of the hunt. The world was still—almost peaceful—and the sounds of Riverwood's mill faded as the loggers retired for the evening.

Shêza ran a hand through her tangled hair as she regained her breath. Secunda was high and bright in the night sky, and the call of her wereblood had demanded release. After her slight transformations in the Barrow, she knew that it was only a matter of time before the wolf came forth.

And this night, so lovely and solitude—all _hers—_provided an excellent opportunity to vent the lycanthropy's hold on her body.

She wiped the blood from her mouth, not caring that it smeared on her lips, and looked down at her fallen prey. She had stalked the elk for the better part of an hour, taunting and frightening it until she sated her sadistic pleasures of luring it to and fro. She gorged herself on its flesh when she at last clamped her jaws around its throat. The wolf inside had receded, pleased with her work, but still whimpered for _more. _

The bare minimum—that was all she would give it. She knew how vast and deep her hunger ran, and often times she'd have to use every ounce of willpower to resist the scrumptious smell of animal blood and meat. Her family frowned down upon the more wild of her kind, the ones that preyed on human flesh and terrorized villages.

Human flesh was far less than tasty, and the blood was far too bitter to be appetizing, but the thrill of terror in mundane folk always set off sparks of desire and obsession in werefolk that demanded more human game.

She patted her chest and closed her eyes as she took in a deep breath, filling her lungs with crisp air. Chest pains were normal for her kind, as the heart twisted and grew when transforming and had to revert to its human size when the call of the wolf dimmed. After a few more breaths, she stood from the grass, sniffing the air to locate where she had left her bow and quiver.

The Draugr that used its voice against her had snapped her bow in half, rendering it useless. Still, it held sentimental value, and she couldn't just leave it in the Barrow. Perhaps there was a way to mend the wood.

Shêza quietly stepped through the trees and shrubs. She sighed as she held her broken bow and slung her quiver over her bare shoulders. Poison ivy tickled her naked legs as she walked through a small clearing filled with the plants, and she veered right toward the mountain overlooking Riverwood.

None of the villagers came here, and for good reason. While they never outright attacked a wandering villager, they were always sure to warn them away with growls or, more rarely, scare them off with howls. It was best that Riverwood's small community didn't know what dwelled beneath their mountain.

A fallen tree hid the entrance to the mountain. Moss and vines grew in abundance on the rotting bark, and she pushed these aside and ducked her way into the mountain. Even in the dim lighting of the entrance, her feet knew where to step, as she had spent her entire life in this hidden grotto of a sanctuary.

Home.

It was more like a labyrinth than a mere cave. The tunnels twisted and emerged into different passages and rooms, each decorated with fabrics and tapestries. Torches alongside the cave's walls were sparse and only a few were lit.

_Everyone's gone to bed already, then. _Shêza stood in the entry to her own small portion of the cave. It was a circular room with few decorations on the rock walls. Three sleeping mats with fur covers were sprawled out opposite of the entryway, and she could see two of them were occupied.

She smiled at the two sleeping forms and tucked a stray foot back underneath the furs before silently walking past them into the chamber beyond.

The werefolk of Riverwood led humble lives, for the most part. There was no unnecessary luxury; everything was at its most basic and mundane. The river Riverwood was so aptly named for ran north toward Whiterun, and then northeast by Windhelm. This river was the source of their water for drinking, alchemy, and even served as entertainment for the younger of her pack.

But most importantly, it served as bathwater.

Due to Shêza's rank and position within her modest family, she had her own bathing chamber. The rest of the tribe, save for her father and sisters, shared a bathing room. Shêza's couldn't begin to compare to the washing basins in palaces—especially in Solitude—but it served its purpose.

Segments of the river erupted into their humble mountain, but her people had used this to their advantage. They had collapsed parts of the cave ceiling to stop the intensity of the river's flow in order to prevent flooding, and had made a trough of smooth stone to hold a small basin of water. Since the river's flow was constant, a dug-out trench was made to drain any excess water.

Shêza sighed and cupped a handful of water and splashed it on her face. A soft growl from behind her caught her attention, and she looked over her shoulder to see a tall figure crouched on a jutting rock.

"Ivor," she said before returning to washing away the warpaint and gore from her face.

"Shêzanaré," he said in a quiet tone, wary of the slumbering girls in Shêza's main quarters. "You've been gone for a while. Usually visits to Whiterun do not take as long."

She grunted and rubbed water over her arms. "I had an errand to run."

He nodded slowly before climbing off of his rock and walking over to her. He picked a leaf out of her hair and gave it a sniff. "Secunda is beautiful tonight. You were just hunting, weren't you?"

"As observant as ever," she muttered.

Ivor frowned and sniffed her shoulder. "You smell foul, like something dead."

"Draugr," she said. She didn't bother adding more details when he raised an eyebrow. "What day is today?"

"Morndas," he said. She lifted her leg over the trough and scrubbed her thighs clean of blood. "Did Balgruuf agree to your proposition?"

She was quiet for several moments as she continued to clean herself, all the while feeling the weight of Ivor's gaze on her. It wasn't a perverse or repulsive stare, she knew that; naked flesh had never insulted her family before. Ivor was scrutinizing her, waiting for the tiniest slip, as he always did.

"I didn't see Balgruuf," she said at last. "I will make for Whiterun in two days to meet with him."

"Where did you go, then? Garald specifically told you to discuss wanderers in our area—"

"I know," Shêza softly growled, "what Garald said. You think I don't remember what my own father tells me? Like I told you, Ivor: I will see the Jarl in two days."

Ivor frowned and took her arm and smelled her wrist. He wore a perplexed look and took a few more whiffs. "This is not your scent, nor anything dead—whose smell is this?"

"No one's," she bit out as she yanked her arm out of his grasp. He walked behind her and sniffed her back. She whirled around and smacked him away with a hiss.

"Nor is that your blood or animal blood on your back." He gave her a suspicious look. "Garald told us to limit our associations with Man and Mer, Shêzanaré. You smell like both."

"Give yourself a pat on the back, Ivor. I do believe your sense of smell has improved drastically since last year when you mistook me as a dog."

"The smell of bitch is hard to differentiate," he said. She hissed and bared her teeth to him.

"If you were not my cousin, your blood would be turning the water red," she warned. "Watch your mouth in the future, Ivor."

"Or what? You may be Garald's daughter, but you are not Alpha, Shêzanaré." He took a step closer to her. "And the last time I checked, that position is given to the oldest _male _of our bloodline, not the oldest female."

She glared at him and clenched her hands into fists. "You know just as well as I do that Garald is nullifying that law."

"He cannot change our ways without the majority of our pack agreeing with him. And I can't see them doing that if his eldest snaps at the smallest of comments and resorts to violence in the blink of an eye." He gave her a mock bow as her eyes blazed in fury. "Good sleep to you, cousin," he said with a smirk before leaving her.

"Good sleep to you as well, Ivor," she growled.

* * *

"Do you think he was handsome?"

"Don't be silly, Helena. No man is brave enough to even look at Shêza."

"But what if he _was _handsome? I bet he was. Maybe he had food—like mammoth. I _do _like mammoth..."

Shêza groaned and turned over in her sleep. She huffed when two familiar voices still chatted away right beside her.

"I don't think people just carry around mammoth with them, Helena."

"How do you know, Nyssa? He could have had a whole cart full of mammoth meat with him. Mammoth thighs are delicious..."

Shêza rolled onto her back and opened an eye to glare at the two girls. "Can you two speak somewhere else? I'm _tired—"_

"Shêzanaré!" they cried in unison before flinging themselves at her. She grunted and pushed them away. She pulled her furs over her head when they tried to cuddle beside her.

"Nyssa, Helena," she said beneath the covers, "do me a favor and leave me alone? It's too early."

"But it's midday, Shêza!" Helena said. She pulled the blanket off of Shêza's face. "We've been really quiet for hours now—honest! Nyssa was right here with me; she knows!"

Nyssa smiled as Shêza sat up in her furs. "Your hair is tangled, Shêzanaré. Why don't you ever brush it?"

"Shêza is beautiful with combed hair," Helena said.

Shêza yawned and stretched her back. She exhaled in relief when she felt her spine crack. "Beauty does not save you from evil at work," she said with another yawn.

Helena frowned and pouted. "But Shêza is so pretty."

"She hides it with her warpaint, though," Nyssa teased.

"But she's _pretty," _Helena said. Her face scrunched together and she stared at her oldest sister with large, pleading eyes.

Shêza sighed and shook her head. "Why don't you two brush it for me, then?" Nyssa and Helena beamed and hurried off to fetch the comb.

* * *

"So who is he?" Nyssa asked as she combed through Shêza's forest of hair. _Honestly, can she at least tend to it more than once a week? I don't even want to know how long these leaves have been in here._

They were sitting in the field of poison ivy, Shêza carving a new bow and her sisters grooming her.

"Who is who?" Shêza asked as she carefully peeled away more wood. Her mind was focused on the task at hand and making sure she didn't cut herself with her knife.

Helena giggled and started to braid the pieces of hair that Nyssa had already combed through. "Nyssa and I heard you and Ivor speaking last night."

"He was a skeever's butt, as usual," Nyssa added.

"But he said you smelled like Man and Mer. It's a male scent, too." Helena smiled over at Nyssa and both of them gave Shêza expectant looks.

Shêza stopped her motions and stared into space as thoughts of the half-elf invaded her mind. She scowled. "No one important."

"Then why were you gone so long?" Nyssa prodded. "You know you're promised a mate already—"

"He was _no one!" _Shêza hissed, her fangs slipping between her lips. "He and I had business with Jarl Balgruuf."

The two girls didn't look convinced. Helena squirmed and shyly asked, "Did he have mammoth with him?"

Nyssa threw her hands in the air, accidentally yanking out some of Shêza's hair in the process. Shêza hissed and clutched her scalp.

"Helena, stop with the mammoth! It isn't even mammoth season!" Nyssa exclaimed.

Helena pursed her lips and stood up from the ground. Her small fists shook, and Shêza saw the tears forming in her youngest sister's eyes. She took Helena's hands in hers and gave them a squeeze.

"I'm headed back toward Whiterun tomorrow, first crack of dawn." Shêza smiled when Helena's bottom lip stopped trembling. "Does a mammoth breakfast sound good to you, Lena?"

Helena grinned toothily at her sister and bobbed her head up and down. "Mm-hmm!"

Nyssa frowned and crossed her arms. "What about me? Don't I get mammoth, too?"

"No," Helena sneered. "Shêza's going to hunt me a mammoth!" She stuck her tongue out at Nyssa and squealed when she pounced on her.

Shêza smiled and rolled her eyes as her two sisters chased each other back into the mountain. She stayed outside, safely secluded in the patches of poison ivy, even when she finished carving her bow. She leaned back against a tree, crossing her feet at the ankles, and sighed heavily. She didn't move from that spot until it was well in the evening, the crickets out and chirping their love-songs.

_'Promised to a mate already.' _Shêza closed her eyes and breathed heavily out of her mouth. A smile crept over her lips when she heard the peals of her sisters' laughter echoing from the entrance of the cave. _'For them, I would do it gladly.'_

* * *

Shêza quietly slipped through the forests of Riverwood, her feet not making the tiniest of sounds on branches or dried leaves. She walked past elk without a care, her hunger satisfied by a small helping of pheasant. The deer watched her keenly, knowing what she was and what danger she posed to them. She growled at them, taking pleasure in seeing them scamper off.

She'd probably make a meal out of them the following day.

Early morning rays of sunlight filtered through the leaves, dancing across the foliage and making the grass swim with color. She smiled and lifted her face toward the sun. The day held promise yet, and if she hurried with her business with Balgruuf, perhaps she would take Nyssa and Helena to a spring to sunbathe.

She was about to turn on the main road to Whiterun when a sound, barely audible, reached her ears. She froze like a statue. Even her breathing was silent as she strained her ears to pinpoint the sound. It was faint, carried over by the wind sloping from the mountains, but was nothing she had ever heard before.

She deemed it safe to move after several minutes of silence. The tiny hairs on the back of her neck still stood on end, and her blood rushed in her veins. Her ears picked up nothing, though, and she forced her feet forward. From behind her, she heard a great swooping sound, and before she knew it, she was crouched on all fours, staring straight up through the canopy.

Something was moving overhead, something _big. _It swooped again, and Shêza hurried over to a group of trees for better concealment. She molded her body to the bark, her heart pounding as she tried to make out the creature from the foliage.

She didn't see it, but she heard it.

It was much louder than before, the roar of a beast unborn of this world. It screamed its outrage at the skies before turning direction and flying toward her. She sucked in her breath and dove out of the way as fire erupted and engulfed the trees surrounding her. She shouted and stayed low to the ground, careful to keep out of the beast's sights. It bellowed again, and she heard its wings flapping as it flew over her.

Panting, Shêza scrambled to her feet and chased after it. She stopped just as the trees ended to give way to the road to Whiterun. Her eyes darted to the sky, frantically trying to spot the beast.

Her eyes widened when she saw a plume of smoke a small ways off from Whiterun. She took in deep gulps of breath, urging the scent to filter through her nostrils. She snarled when the smell of fire reached her nose, and as if on cue, the culprit flew overhead, this time flying straight for the smoke. There was no time to think, only act. She bounded down the rocky slopes toward the burning watch tower, her beastblood roaring in fear and rage. She hurtled over jutting rocks and ran as fast as she could. By the time the tower was within sight, her bow was drawn, held to the side as she sprinted.

The smells of fire and burning corpses were thick in the air.

* * *

Isben shouted to the other guards as he sighted the Dragon. It roared and flew toward them at an impossible speed, as if its wings were the winds of Skyrim. It circled the watch tower, and Isben and the other guards dove for cover behind the burning rubble as more fire spewed from its horrible jaws.

"If we let this get the best of us, it will reach the city!" Irileth shouted over the Dragon's roars. "All of you, find separate cover on my command! We mustn't let it pass!" When the Dragon turned and started to circle again, Irileth gave the order, and all of the archers hustled to different shelters. The warriors, along with Irileth, braced themselves as the Dragon landed.

Isben nocked an arrow and let it fly once the beast's feet touched the ground. His arrow landed harmlessly near its tail, and he cursed himself. The other archers were peppering it with their own arrows, but the Dragon's spindly scales deflected most of the onslaught. Irileth screamed, slicing at it with her sword while casting lightning-based spells at it. The other guards stood on either side of the Dragon, diverting its attention away from Irileth when necessary.

They didn't see the Dragon's tail until it was too late, though. One by one, the guards were knocked aside, leaving Irileth the focus of its attention. It snapped its jaws at her, its teeth finding purchase on her gauntlet. She screamed as it ripped through the metal and tore at her flesh, and by luck, she managed to free herself of its hold before it tore her arm off.

But she couldn't pose a threat to the Dragon, not when she was injured. The archers knew this, and they slowly merged out from behind the rubble to shout and release more arrows at it. The Dragon made a sound—a laugh, Isben thought—and trampled its way toward a group of guards. Even as they scrambled away from the Dragon, it gained ground, and in a matter of seconds it either squashed the remaining archers or fried them to charred corpses.

Irileth's hand glowed as she charged a healing spell; she was not going to be a further participant in this battle. Isben swallowed and leapt out from his cover, fumbling for an arrow as the Dragon turned its head toward him.

It seemed amused to see him, its orange eyes dancing with humor as it watched him. It pushed its way toward him, watching and waiting for Isben to release his arrow.

_Dovahkiin._

Isben blinked and shook his head. He trembled and took a step back. The Dragon roared another laugh and locked eyes with him.

_Dovahkiin._

A throb began in Isben's head, right behind his eyes and in his temples, just like what happened in the Barrow. The Dragon watched him, almost curiously. It shifted in its spot, its back feet moving hither and thither as it scrutinized him.

_You are brave, Dovahkiin._

For a moment, Isben's vision blanked, and he saw himself through the Dragon's eyes.

_Brave, but foolish. Alduin will be proud of Mirmulnir's victory._

Isben tightened his grip on the bow. The beast laughed, both out loud and in his head, when it saw the fearful determination in his eyes.

_Krif krin, Dovahkiin. Yol._

Without further warning, fire blossomed from its mouth. He felt the heat as the flames licked toward him, certain that this was where he would fall.

And fall he did when something collided with him and sent him sprawling to the ground. He landed hard on his back, the flames still searing just a foot above him. Numbly, he rolled away from the fire, his heart palpitating uncontrollably and his mind pounding with adrenaline. When he couldn't feel the Dragon's fire, he whipped his head toward it—_Mirmulnir. _

No matter how many times he blinked, he thought his eyes to be lying to him. There she was, her bow drawn, her lips retracted in a snarl. Before Mirmulnir could breathe more fire, she released her arrow, hissing when it embedded itself in one of his eyes.

Mirmulnir gave off a terrible screech as his eye exploded. He stood on his hind legs and screamed his pain out and launched himself back into the sky before Shêza could blind his other eye.

"Get up," she said without taking her eyes off of the Dragon. Isben obeyed, gathering himself on unsteady legs and following her lead as she readied another arrow. "Aim for its wings."

He nodded and tried to do as she said. Most of his arrows missed, but the ones that met their marks earned more bellows from Mirmulnir. Shêza's shots were calculated—too calculated to be normal. Her arrows tore through the delicate skin on his wings, and the fury radiating from every orifice on her body was almost contagious.

But the glory was short lived, as Mirmulmir landed not even ten yards from them. He snapped and bit at Shêza, deeming her the greater threat. His jaws missed her by inches, and even though her frenzy stimulated the battle, Isben could see how terrified she was. Using the moment to his advantage, he let loose an arrow that lodged itself in its snout. Mirmulnir snarled and thrust his head to the side. One of his horns caught Shêza on the arm, and she cried out as it tore through her skin. She was knocked back from the impact, leaving Isben to fend for himself.

He tossed his bow to the side when Mirmulnir opened his mouth to Shout. As the fire danced from his jaws, Isben threw himself under the Dragon. He drew the enchanted sword from the Barrow and plunged it into the soft belly-side of the beast, the seconds seeming to drag on as he waited for the ice to blossom.

Mirmulnir's scream was deafening, high-pitched and filled with raw pain. Blood seeped from the wound in large spurts, coating Isben in a fine sheet of it. It was in his mouth, but he would not let the metallic taste halt him. When he felt Mirmulnir's muscles bunch to take off in flight, Isben wrenched the sword deeper into his belly, an animal-like sound growling out of his mouth. He sucked in a breath when Mirmulnir's legs sprawled out, unable to hold his weight.

Shêza, once recovered, sprinted as fast as she could when she saw Isben crushed by the Dragon. She leapt onto its back, her feet scrabbling for purchase on its spindly scales. Her claws could not break through its scales—not easily, anyway—and she hurried up the length of its neck. She wrapped her legs around the base of its head and clawed at its other eye. Blood trickled out of his mouth as he roared. When she plucked the remains of his eyes out, she gouged her claws in his sockets, tearing and ripping at the delicate scales there. He thrashed and tried to buck her off, but it was futile.

Finally, Mirmulrnir collapsed completely, his great head and tail crashing to the ground. Shêza hissed and bounded off of his back, landing unceremoniously on all fours. She rammed her entire body weight into its side, not caring when its scales started to draw blood. Isben was still under it, crushed and broken—

She leapt away when Mirmulnir's skin started to eat away at itself, like fire to a sheet of paper. A faint red aura surrounded the beast, and she stood her ground, ready to leap into action. Its skin peeled away into nothing to reveal—

Bones. It was decaying, shedding itself clear of all of its skin, leaving stark white bones in its wake. And below the bones was Isben, every inch of him covered in blood, limbs sprawled out, winded and panting as if his life depended on it.

She hurried over to him, pushing past the bones and kneeling by his side. His pupils were as small as a quill's tip as he stared up at her. She opened her mouth to say something, but her voice died in her throat as she watched the Dragon's blood seep into his own skin. The blood coating his armor traveled up the leather until it met his flesh. His skin absorbed it like a rag to water.

She stepped back when red and blue tendrils traveled from the Dragon's corpse to him, enveloping Isben in their glow. His mouth opened in a scream when he felt the invasive power—_intrusive, wrong, inhuman—_

_ Mirmulnir. _

He felt weightless, floating—_flying. _Taking long strides without feeling the pull in his muscles—_flying. _

Glimpses, so fleeting they were, flooded his mind. He saw the world from above, like how the birds see it—how _Mirmulnir _saw it.

_He was nearing the watch tower, his great wings carrying him there, fire brewing in the back of his throat, ready to Shout the defilers from his rightful realm._

_ Betrayers. Enemies. Vermin._

His back arched as he screamed again, his hands clutching at his hair. His vision darkened then went white before clearing.

Shêza watched, too startled and too curious to try to interfere with whatever was happening. She saw his eyes shift from their natural hazel to Mirmulnir's orange. It was only for a second, but it made her blood surge with panic and fear.

Then it was over. The tendrils were gone, having completed their transformation. He felt something click into place, something in the back of his mind. The word was comfortable there, like a cat basking in the sun. It was like liquid chocolate: warm, welcoming, languid. And there was no barrier, as if the tendrils were the lockpick to the key.

It slipped out of his mouth easily, as if it was the first word he'd ever said in this accursed world.

"_Fus."_

* * *

Translations:

Krif krin: Fight courageously.

Yol: word of Fire Breath

**And no, I do not have interracial breeding incorrect. Have I tweaked it a bit? Sure. Isben's mother is a Bosmer. She had olive toned skin (what I think to be the typical skin-tone of Bosmer), pointy ears, and wasn't too tall. Isben has olive toned skin, ears that are a bit pointed, and isn't as tall as a typical Nord. And though I have not stated it yet, he has the almond shaped elven eyes. But he still has traits from his father (broad shoulders, a little resistance to cold).**


	10. Truth in Finding

Skyrim belongs to Bethesda, but any OC and any plot twist or add-on not created by Bethesda is mine. Enjoy, and let me know what you think! :)

* * *

"It's all over the Holds: Dragonborn Rises, Whiterun Dragon Slain," Romlyn Dreth said as he read over the small poster left by the courier.

"Sixth message that's come in today," Talen-Jei said over his shoulder as he swept away the latest vomit in the Bee and Barb. "Dragonborn. Imagine that. I just hope that's the last of those damned Dragons. Won't be good for business—Divines know we need it—otherwise."

"Think they'd make such a big deal over it if they were all gone? Look, they even don't have curious stains on the paper. I'd wager we're in the deep stuff, now."

"Keep quiet over there," Keerava hissed from her spot behind the counter. "Flapping jaws don't help the customers drink the mead." She glanced over at Hemming Black-Briar at his usual table—the only table in the tavern with even legs. Thankfully, his mother wasn't dining with him.

"This was mead? Mistook it for horse piss."

Keerava glanced up at the other side of the tavern. She frowned. "If you don't like it, you can get yourself and that _trash _out of my sight, Francis."

Francis laughed and held his whore for the night closer, offering her a suggestive squeeze to her rump, taking delight in her breathy gasp. "You're more sour than usual, Keerava. What, was Indaryn complaining too much about his job? I'm sure Maven would take his complaints instead."

Keerava snorted and scrubbed her counter down with a rag, keeping her gaze away from Francis. "_Hmph. _I swear, you only crawl out of your rat hole to find unwanted opportunity in my tavern!"

Francis smirked and planted his knife in the courier's message on his table, all the while stealing more kisses from the scantily clad woman on his lap. "Seems opportunity is afoot though, no?" he mused to himself. He stared at the poster, his eyes tracing the heroic picture illustrated on it. His whore ran her fingers over his chest and breathed tiny erotic sounds into his ear.

Keerava sniffed and paid him no more mind.

"Don't tell me that nose of yours is finding more trouble, lad."

Francis looked up from the poster only to acknowledge Brynjolf taking a seat across from him. "Trouble is where the thrill is, my friend." He managed to untangle an arm from around the whore and motioned for Keerava to bring over two more tankards. The Argonian glared at him and only complied until he slapped down a few septims on the table.

"Been looking for you, lad. Thought you'd either be buried between Haelga's legs or drowning yourself. Guess I figured correctly." Brynjolf watched as Francis sliced the poster in small segments before glancing around the tavern. He somewhat expected seeing more of the posters with multiple knives tacking them to the wall. "Keerava hasn't commented on your taste for decoration yet?"

"I believe she likes her scales right where they are."

"Though I believe she's commented on your other tastes, judging by her glare." The two of them looked at the whore silently, her lips planting kiss upon kiss on Francis's exposed flesh the only sounds at the table. Brynjolf chuckled and crossed his arms. "Word spreads fast in time of crisis, lad. In fact, Riften has her own little crisis. Right here, amongst the people."

Francis raised an eyebrow and took a swig from his tankard. The whore pulled the mug from his mouth to trace his lips with her tongue. "Don't tell me you already have a job for the fresh meat?"

"And if I did?" Brynjolf smirked as laughter danced in his eyes. "Thought you'd be more eager to finally get out on the field."

"If you did," Francis said slowly, "I'd accept it."

"Without hearing the details? Watch that in the future, lad. Don't need you rushing into trouble blindly. But we have an agreement, then."

Without preamble, Francis shoved the whore off of his lap, her indignant squeal deaf to his ears. He kicked his muddy boots on the table—pointedly ignoring Keerava's glower—and leaned back on one chair leg and folded his arms behind his head. "Well then, Brynjolf, let's talk business."

* * *

"So, you won't do it?" Shêza said as she watched Isben rearrange the potions on Arcadia's shelves. "You slay the Dragon, hear the Greybeards Shout for you, and you won't heed their call?"

He sighed and stepped onto a stool to reach the higher potions. "I won't shame myself and Skyrim further. _I _didn't slay the Dragon; it was pure luck that I killed the beast. I won't place Skyrim's faith in luck."

"But you'll throw faith in a sewer by not rising up?" She slammed down the Dragonborn poster on the counter and stabbed her finger in the parchment. "The people of Skyrim expect salvation from these dark times, and you will toss aside their pleas!"

"The people of Skyrim," Isben said as he pried Shêza's finger off of the poster, "expect a hero—a champion!—to deliver them from the Dragon's fires." He held the poster up next to his face. "Do I _look _like a champion to you?"

She frowned and shook her head. "What the poster shows changes nothing—"

"Ohoho, indeed it does," Isben said. "Look at this, would you? What do you see? I'll tell you what I see: I see a brave man, clad in the heaviest armor I could ever even _imagine, _stabbing an oversized, exaggerated Dragon in the heart with a sword _twice _his size." He stepped out from behind the counter and held his arms out from his body as he turned in a circle. "Do I look like that, Shêza?"

She snarled and grabbed the poster from him. "It is symbolic, you fool! It shows Skyrim's strength, her courage, her—"

"Qualities not found in _me, _a half-elf, half-Nord foreigner!"

"So what will you do? Waste your time rearranging potions, playing delivery boy to Arcadia and Farengar while the world around you dies?"

"No." He turned and started cleaning the counter. "I'm raising funds to hire a coach to leave Skyrim and find me a nice, secluded place where I can practice alchemy in peace without rabid women pestering me about 'destiny' and 'duty.'"

She scoffed and crossed her arms. "You're running away, then. You're a coward, a little puppy!"

He looked up from the counter. "And that only justifies my reasoning as to why I am not suited for this task. Let someone else deal with this crisis—like the Companions. Isn't that what they're for?"

"Those _dogs _couldn't fix a broken sword if their life depended on it!"

"Well then let some other wanderer take my place—what do you want me to do!"

She growled, the hair on the back of her neck standing on end. She watched him with icy eyes as he returned to his cleaning.

When he turned back to her, waiting to hear her response, she was gone.

* * *

One eye was on the sky and the other in front of her as Shêza made her way back to her mountain sanctuary. _Ridiculous twit, _she thought. _Runs away from his purpose like a scared pup. Tit-sucking baby._

A deep growl brewed in her throat by the time she ducked into her mountain. Her fellow kinsman inclined their heads out of respect, though she was not blind to their wary glances and quiet murmurs. More than one of them took the opportunity to sniff her, curious as to where she had been the past week.

The frown etched into brow softened a fraction when Nyssa approached her. Nyssa curled her hand around Shêza's and squeezed her fingers. "We... we heard from Riverwood. The town's in distress, one of those demons attacking so close—"

"Where is Father?"

Nyssa nodded. "In his den. Helena's been having nightmares." She walked with Shêza as they slipped past other family members. "Sister... you've been absent for a week. We were worried."

"Whiterun's in a panic, as I imagine all of the cities are. The Jarl wanted me present—I suppose to make it clear that our kind are to watch over Riverwood and defend it against any incoming Dragon attack."

The sound of her father's laughter echoing from his chambers made a small smile stretch on Shêza's lips. When she and Nyssa pulled aside the fur curtains and let themselves into the room, he looked up from his youngest daughter swaddled in his arms to greet them.

Nyssa hurried over to him and was quick to have him wrap an arm around her and place a kiss on her forehead. Shêza hung back, watching Helena scoot over on his lap to fit the both of them. A small twitch formed in her brow when she saw Ivor leaning on the cave wall behind Garald.

"Now, what did I say about Shêzanaré returning?" Garald whispered in Helena's ear. She giggled as he growled and nuzzled her head. She wrapped her small arms around him and smiled over at Shêza.

Shêza knelt by Helena and tousled her dark hair. "Silly pheasant fussing about me again?"

"As usual," Nyssa said. She jumped and squeaked when Helena poked her in the ribs and would have pounced on her if her father didn't hold her back.

Garald gave Nyssa a stern look as he unwrapped his arm from around her—daring her to leap on his little one. He placed the back of his hand on Shêza's neck, and she mimicked the action, both of them feeling the soft growls in their throats. "Shêzanaré." A warm smile split his face. "I was beginning to think that human life had taken a fancy on you."

She chuckled and shook her head. Garald was an older werewolf, though not old enough to be grey and wrinkled. There were faint streaks of grey in his sideburns, but the trimmed beard he kept still held its dark brown color, as did the rest of his hair.

"So much time with them only has me yearning for my natural life: here."

Nyssa leaned over and sniffed her wrist. "You smell like everyone in Whiterun and their brother."

Helena pouted. "But she doesn't smell like mammoth."

Shêza froze as she met Helena's sad eyes. _Fool! That stupid man and his Dragon-constipation distracted you! _

"Helena, I—"

"It's alright," she said, squirming in her father's hold. "Ivor hunted me a bear."

Shêza eyed her cousin. "Did he, now."

He nodded. "Your sisters were hungry, so I took the liberty to provide for them." A sneer, so faint that she had to squint to see it, marred his face. "I hope you don't mind."

"Of _course _not," she lilted.

Garald took her hand in his. "Now, daughter. Tell us of these Dragons. I'd like to hear the news before I present it to the rest of the pack."

Ivor took a seat next to Garald and grinned all too innocently at Shêza. "Yes, cousin: tell us of this Dragon."

* * *

For the three weeks that Shêza left him, his routine was very much the same every day: clean Arcadia's shelves, rearrange the potions, offer help whenever a customer needed an antidote or a quick patch-up job, or run to and fro Farengar's office delivering ingredients that he very knew well what they were for.

He supposed a man as stressed and busy as Farengar needed a boost in stimulation, but he didn't want to know for certain.

Since Isben had run the apothecary with minimum problems, Arcadia trusted him to look after the shop whenever she had to run here and there. And she'd been more and more absent with him substituting for her, often spending her time at The Bannered Mare.

He was just about to close shop for the evening and stepped down his stool to lock up when he heard the front door open. He looked over his shoulder and nearly fell off the stool when the biggest Nord he'd ever seen stood in the doorway, axe held out in his hand.

The Nord chuckled and leaned his axe against the wall. "Always have men piss their trousers whenever I do that. Sorry." Isben swallowed and forced a smile and swore his hand broke when the Nord shook it. "Vimund's the name. Vimund Brawn-Haul, newest member of the Companions. Came up here from Bruma just a month ago. The Legion's holding everyone up at the border, and even if you have a certificate for passage, they'll kill you on sight if they catch you leaving without their permission." He sniffed.

Isben slowly nodded, staring thoughtfully at the man. His face lit up with recognition. "You killed the giant attacking Pelagia Farm. I saw you on my way to the city. That was... something else, I'll tell you."

Vimund smiled and took a seat at the counter. "That display bought me a place in the Companions. Not much of a rank, if you ask me. I've been fetching mead for the last week," he snorted. "I'm actually here on behalf of them. One of them—a real hot-head, he is—thought to underestimate me during a duel. The clod ended up with a broken sword and an even more broken nose."

Isben nodded and gathered the necessary ingredients. "Did the bone snap, or was it only dislodged?"

"Who can say? The man's so stubborn he won't let anyone look at it, not even his brother. Though, I wouldn't trust Farkas if I had a broken nose, either, come to think of it," he mused and scratched the hair on his chin.

"Bruma, did you say?" Isben asked as he ground butterfly wings and mountain flowers in a mortar.

Vimund nodded and watched Isben prepare the potion. "Twenty some years ago, I fought in the Great War. I was only a lad, seventeen summers on my shoulders, but I fought with the might of a sabre cat against those Thalmor bastards. You know how all that ended. Anyone not part of the Aldmeri Dominion received only scrappings and was pushed away from the capital. I ended up in Bruma, as well as a hundred other Nords, under constant watch by the Dominion. They treated us like cattle. It was the luckiest day of my life when I finally made it over the border."

"I was from the University," Isben said. "Used to be Master Alchemist, professor to the most elite of the attending students. But when the Dominion moved in?" Isben snorted and shook his head. "Everything was lost to me, save a roof over my head. One of their own took my title and started teaching only Mer-born or other Thalmor.

"I heard rumors of a plant native to only Skyrim—the Red Nirnroot—and decided that if I could find it and learn its properties, it'd put me back into favor with the University."

"And you find yourself behind Arcadia's counter instead."

Isben laughed and gave a smile. "Sadly. So, why the Companions and not the Rebellion?"

Vimund shrugged. "I've had my share of war, seen enough atrocities. What a man sees on and off a battlefield haunts him for the rest of his life." Isben corked his potion and slid it over to Vimund and accepted his payment. "Thank you—"

"Isben," he said, mentally berating himself for not introducing himself sooner.

Vimund wore a sly smile. "Oh, I know who you are. Your posters are everywhere." He threw his head back and let off a hearty laugh as he gathered his axe and left the apothecary. Isben groaned and smacked his forehead, feeling the beginnings of a migraine.

* * *

Shêza stormed through The Bannered Mare the following morning, ignoring the patrons as they hooted and called out to her. She knew that if they were sober, they wouldn't dare say such suggestive things her way.

But she also knew she'd castrate them if they even put one hand on her.

Shêza pushed her way to the counter and slammed a few septims down in front of Hulda. "The Dragonborn. Which room is he in?"

A frown appeared in Hulda's brow. "We guarantee our customers the luxury of privacy when they pay for a room." When she saw the candlelight flicker on the coins—and not the glower Shêza gave her—she smiled at the woman. "Ah, the Dragonborn, did you say? Must have heard wrong. Of course. Just up the stairs, second door on the left."

Shêza huffed and stomped up the stairs. She practically yanked Isben's door off of its hinges and let herself into the room. He wasn't in, but she knew where to find him. Gathering his bow and arrows, she left The Bannered Mare, baring her teeth at Mikael when she caught him eying her up and down, and went to fetch that troublesome half-elf.

* * *

"You ignore your duty, so now you face the consequences," Shêza growled as she dragged Isben out of Arcadia's Cauldron and out of Whiterun.

Isben dug his heels into the cobbles, hoping to all known gods that he'd be able to escape her vice-like grip on the collar of his tunic. "I'm _not _going up that mountain—"

"Of course you're not, you twit. Not yet. No. You'll trip on an uneven step and die, most likely." She threw him out of the Whiterun gates and waited until his tumble came to a stop before she tossed him his bow and quiver. "I've had enough of your piss-poor aim, whelp. Now I'm going to teach you, and you're going to learn. Understood?"

Isben shook his head and was about to retort, but she was already dragging him down the slopes to the path leading to Riverwood, not caring that he didn't even regain his feet yet.

"Would you—_ack-_stop dragging—_oof!" _Isben spat and cursed beneath his breath as he choked out mouthful after mouthful of dirt.

"Why don't you stand up? Cobbles up ahead."

At those words, he leapt onto his feet and uncurled Shêza's hand from his arm. He stuck his tongue out in disgust and brushed his clothes off. "Women in Skyrim are very different than women in Cyrodiil."

"Used to frilly dresses and dainty laces?"

"Used to _manners," _he said. "And frills are alright, so long as someone wears them sparingly, else they'll just look like a multi-layered cake."

"You would know," she cackled.

"I would," he agreed with a bob of his head. "It's time consuming and irritating undressing a woman in the heat of the moment when you have to battle your way through wave upon wave of _frills. _I think wearing more than one crinoline is the new fashion nowadays in Cyrodiil."

She stopped dead in her tracks and whirled around so suddenly that he had to take a step back to keep a respectful (and safe) distance from her. She offered him a blank stare.

"What?"

She narrowed her eyes at him. "_Hmph." _She continued on to Riverwood, leaving Isben dumbfounded.

"All I'm saying that it's hard to reach your goal—"

"Shorty."

"_What? _That's not what I..!_" _He gawked at her and shook his head in disbelief. "Now you just wait a moment there." He stomped after her, hating the inch she had on him in height that gave her a longer stride. "If you're going to insult me, look me in the eye—"

She was an inch from him as she looked him in the eye. "Shorty." Her eyes roamed over his face for a moment before she flicked him in the forehead and resumed her pace.

He sighed and followed her through the woods until they came upon a crudely made target.

"We can always use the targets in Riverwood," he said.

"No."

"But—"

"_No."_ She waited until he had an arrow nocked and pulled back on the string before stalking behind him. "Legs out." She kicked his feet until his legs were apart. "Shoulders strong."

"What?" He jumped when her hands squeezed his shoulders. She muttered beneath her breath, saying something along the lines of 'weak.' He inhaled and straightened his posture, very much aware of the strain on his arms from keeping the arrow still for so long.

"One foot in front, the other in back." She circled him, making sure he didn't move from his position. "Stop fidgeting."

"It _hurts—" _

"What's your dominant hand?"

"Left."

"Then turn your body—no, not like that. Watch." She demonstrated with her own bow until he turned in the right position. "Hold the grip with your right hand, pull the string back with your left." She rolled her eyes when he pulled the string back too far. "Who taught you how to hold a bow?"

"Faendal of Riverwood."

"Stupid elf," she hissed. "Pull it back to your ear—now hold the bow steady and aim at the center of the target. You're shaking, it's going to go wide—" Shêza shrieked and crouched to the ground when his arrow whizzed in her direction and plunked in a tree right behind her. "Hold it _steady, _twit!"

"Stop talking in my ear, then! All I hear is 'don't do this' and 'don't do that'—would you appreciate it if I did that to you?" They stared each other down, both not willing to lose this staring contest, but he let his gaze drop when she took a few steps back and quietly observed him. He chuckled and rolled his shoulders. "Now I can feel you staring at my back." He heard her shuffle on her feet.

"What was her name?" she asked quietly.

"Whose?" He drew his bow, another arrow nocked, and aimed at the target.

"Frilly woman with the crinoline."

"Oh, eh, Carolina." He closed one eye and leveled his bow to the target.

"Is she your wife?"

He released the arrow from the absurd question and looked at her over his shoulder. "No, nothing that intimate. Just someone who shared my need for release."

"She was a whore, then."

"No, not a whore. She was a noble from a good family." He released another arrow.

"You don't need to work at a brothel to be a whore," Shêza said with a scowl. "Women like that do not deserve to be called women, for they act and are treated as animals." When he shot two more arrows, she asked, "Are you married?"

"Never met the right woman."

"And yet you give yourself to a woman you aren't bonded to?"

Isben furrowed his brow and adjusted his grip on the bow. "The women I've bedded have all been courted by me. I've never sought out brothels for pleasure or prowled for a desperate woman. I treat them properly."

"If you treated them properly, then you'd be married."

"Maybe," he laughed. "The ears make the decision for most, though." He left to retrieve his arrows, leaving Shêza alone. She glanced up at the foliage when she heard the leaves rustle and branches snap.

Ivor curled his lip up in disgust. "What vermin you associate yourself with, Shêzanaré. To think that you would choose a _mutt _as a conquest."

She rolled her eyes. "What stupidity you display with every word you utter, cousin. That's the Dragonborn you speak of, fool."

Ivor's eyes lit up with wicked delight. "Oh! How quaint that you're moving onto the big dogs now, cousin. Be sure not to become too distracted, Shêzanaré. We wouldn't want Garald's Alpha position to slip past his beloved daughter, now would we?"

She hissed and waved her hand at him, dismissing him as Isben came back from collecting his arrows.

He looked at her, not surprised to see her frown. "How long do I have to keep at this?"

"Until nightfall." He sighed and continued to practice.

Her ear twitched as she barely picked up a faint whisper coming from the trees. She seethed silently and bared her teeth at the treetops, not able to see him but able to smell him.

_"I'll be watching, Shêzanaré."_

* * *

Isben laid sprawled out on his bed at The Bannered Mare, too exhausted to move even an inch. After he walked back to Whiterun like a man in his ending years, he'd managed to scarf down a quick dinner and flop into bed. He didn't know where Shêza went; one moment she was behind him, but when he reached the Whiterun gates, she disappeared into thin air. He wasn't too concerned. She was a strong, capable woman and knew how to take care of herself.

He sighed and closed his eyes, content to let his aching body rest well into the morning. Arcadia would understand if he took the day off. He was the Dragonborn after all, meant to save Tamriel and not serve potions.

He wet his lips and ran his tongue over his teeth. He made sure it was right where he left it, stretched out like a lazy cat in his mind. He smiled when he felt the Word's presence and mulled it over in his head.

_Fus. _Simple, but useful in very mundane ways. There was hardly any power to the Word compared to how the Draugr had used it on him in Bleak Falls Barrow, but perhaps with time, he'd nurture his talents and—

_No. Absolutely not, _he thought. He'd work for Arcadia to raise a good chunk of coin and then take the first wagon out of Skyrim.

He felt a small pang in his forehead, as if _Fus _could understand his thoughts. _Ridiculous, _Isben thought. He pulled the blankets tighter around him and tried to ignore the pain in his head. It grew with intensity the more he ignored it, until it spread to his ribcage and clenched around his heart. He gasped, trying to suck in air, trying to call for help, but it was as if someone gagged him.

_Dovahkiin. _

His eyes rolled back into his head as he felt like someone was driving a narrow piece of wood into his skull. His back arched off the bed, and in a moment, he collapsed, his breathing returning to normal and the pain receding.

Sweat matted his hair to his brow as he took in huge gulps of breath. He panted and kicked off the covers, desperate to be rid of the suffocating warmth. He sighed and forced his body to relax. He looked around the room, finding comfort in the cool shadows dimly lit by candlelight, and turned over on his side—

His scream was muffled as two orange eyes stared at him, watching him. Isben blinked, and they were gone. Scrambling out of bed, he stumbled over to the basin of water on the dresser. He splashed his face and rubbed the back of his neck, murmuring soothing words to himself. He gripped the edge of the dresser and bowed his head.

He looked at his reflection in the water, noting his disheveled appearance and sweat gleaming on his chest. He shook his head, and when he looked back at his reflection, those orange eyes met his gaze.

He shouted and threw himself away from the bowl, landing on his bum. The bowl clattered to the floor, the water spilling out onto the floor. He trembled as it reached his feet and could only stare as not water, but blood stained his toes.

His hands felt sticky, and when he brought them up to his face, he saw they were covered in blood. The pain returned to his mind, stabbing and driving at his sanity. He groaned and cradled his head and curled into a ball on his side.

_Dovahkiin._

The eyes stared down at him as the words assaulted him. He closed his eyes to hide from the glaring orange, but it was as if they'd been burned on the back of his eyelids. Isben willed the voice to leave him, to end this maddening plague on his body.

_You will die, Dovahkiin, offender of our Kind. The Souls will devour you alive as you house yourself to them._

Isben thrashed on the floor, his fingers digging into his scalp. The eyes burned with entertainment from seeing him break—_weak mortal._

_Your human flesh cannot contain us. For you to harbor these Souls is madness. _

Images swam across Isben's vision, pulling him into a different time. He saw them, the Dragons. They flew past him, all staring at him with hatred shining in their otherworldly eyes. They Shouted their fury to the skies, all clearing way for the black Dragon's merciless plunder of Nirn.

He felt the heat from its nostrils on his face, saw the black eyes in front of him. His mind, disconnected from his body, would not allow him to scream, not even as the Dragon opened its jaws and clamped its fangs over his head.

His eyes flew open, and once again, he was on the floor in The Bannered Mare, sweating and panting profusely as his heart pounded like a war drum in his chest. The blood on the floor gathered and slid up his body until it reached the blood on his hand, and then it seeped into his skin, just like Mirmulnir's had done before.

_ Mirmulnir._

Isben trembled and held himself on the floor, knees drawn to his chest and head resting between them. Sleep claimed him from the world, his trauma soon receding back into the depths of his mind, but always _there. _

Just like _Fus._

_ But as you exercise your Shouts, you will know longevity. _


	11. Grasping Weeds

Skyrim belongs to Bethesda. Any OC or plot-line not recognizable belongs to me. :) Enjoy! **Fanart of Ivor can be found on my deviantart page: h.t.t.p.:././.e.r.a.-.a.g.e...d.e.v.i.a.n.t.a.r.t...c.o.m./.#./.d.5.j.o.6.6.y. (remove periods)**

* * *

Vimund hauled the latest blocks of wood up the steps to the Wind District. It was just the small hours of the morning, the markets just starting to open up shop, and Jorrvaskr's fire pits were cold. He did not want to see Tilma, that wee thing, take to the hatchet. Though the old woman made a fuss about him overstepping his boundaries and saying that a Companion should not take to chores, he could tell she was grateful for the small reprieve.

Vimund snorted. _They don't seem to have an issue with me fetching mead, now do they? _

He came to a stop in his tracks when he recognized the half-elf sitting on a bench beside the Gildergreen, staring at the stream of water trickling around the courtyard of the Wind District. Vimund smiled in greeting and plopped his load of lumber beside Isben, chuckling when the man jumped in his seat, before joining him.

"Lovely morning, aye?"

Isben stared at the water, his gaze distant as Vimund waited for an answer. The Nord gave him a curious look and watched him as he idly ran his hands over the wood of his bow.

"Ah, so you're an archer then. The posters don't do you justice after all, or are you just that talented, Dragonborn?" Vimund chuckled and offered him a friendly clap on the back. He held Isben steady when he lurched forward from the force of the gesture. Vimund shook his head and rolled his shoulders back, popping a few bones here and there. "Aye, but it is a lovely morning. Heimskr isn't even out yet preaching about Talos. Whiterun is a beautiful city before it awakens, no? Just use your senses: you hear the water trickling, you smell the ironworks of the Skyforge and Warmaiden's, you feel the wind of Kynareth!"

Isben closed his eyes and leaned his head back against the bench, listening to the water trickle through the gratings in the District. He synchronized his breathing with that _trickle trickle trickle _and absently rubbed his temples with his fingers.

Vimund sighed in contentment and glanced about them. "They say Whiterun is the truest Nordic way of living in Skyrim. Give a man a hearth, sanctuary, and food, and he will have his true Nordic way of living. What say you? You look a bit ashen there, friend. Come." He hauled Isben onto his feet and kept him upright when he wobbled. "Hulda's loaves are the best this time of day."

With Vimund keeping Isben on his feet and not falling on his face or bottom, the two made their way to The Bannered Mare. Isben wasn't given a chance to protest when Vimund paid for their breakfast. They sat in the back corner, away from the prying eyes of Whiterun's curious citizenry—not that they would go anywhere _near _the big Nord man with the even bigger axe resting right beside him that he knew very well how to use.

"Butter's nice and tender here, too. For a tavern, it's not bad. Probably not as good as what the Jarl's sinking his teeth into right now, but food is food. It's better than the slop they gave us in the army."

Isben nodded as he helped himself to another slice of bread. He was all but gorging himself on the food now, Vimund's quiet commentary keeping him from noticing the man's eyes on him as he stuffed himself. He didn't realize how _starving _he was—how could he have realized with that _demon _still _looking _at him?

"You ever eat potetballs?"

Isben looked up from his bread long enough to nod. "An Aldmeri variation, I believe. It had noodles, vegetables, and a type of meat stuffed in it."

Vimund nodded and took a swig from his tankard of ale. "Ever had it with lingonberry jam? You ever want potetballs—_good _potetballs, not something a peddler wants to con you with—you go to Solitude."

Isben smiled into his tankard. "I'll take your word for it."

"You'd better. That's what they don't tell you: half the Nords up in Solitude? They're there for the potetballs."

They left The Bannered Mare after finishing their food, Vimund smacking Isben's hand away from his purse when he tried once again to pay for his own tab, and headed out back into Whiterun.

"Don't look now, friend, but you see that scrawny lad over there?" Vimund murmured as he and Isben climbed the steps back into the Wind District.

"The man accosting that woman at that stall? What about him?"

"That's Mikael. Scrawny light-weight milk-drinking bard. Plays good music; his hands know the keys on flutes better than anyone else in Whiterun."

"I take it that's not all those hands know."

Vimund laughed and clapped Isben on the back. "Right you are. Watch yourself about him. He has this belief that all women in this city belong to him or some such rubbish."

"Women are the least of my problems."

"Fair enough." Vimund motioned back to the bench and didn't join Isben when he sat back down on it. "I'm only saying is that you're Dragonborn. That carries a lot of weight to it, and while Mikael is a tit-suckling sap, there are other men in this world who would do more than glare at a man because of their title. We don't want you ending up like this tree here, do we?" Vimund rapped his knuckles against the bark of the Gildergreen and gave a soft sigh.

Isben twisted his body to look up into the branches and frowned. "What is this tree anyway? Is it Whiterun's symbol? In Chorrol, the Great Oak was on the back of every note from the city. Of course, the Thalmor blocked the Oak off from public affairs after they invaded."

"From what I've heard, this tree, the Gildergreen, has been in Whiterun soil since the city was first founded. It's said to be a blessing from Kynareth Herself. I don't know if that's true or not, but Danica Pure-Spring, the priestess of Kynareth here in the city, assures me it's so. Something happened to the tree—a storm, I believe, and it withered."

Vimund ran his hand up the bark and shook his head. "It's a fine tree, too. A shame that—eh, friend of yours?" He nodded his head toward the Plains District, and Isben followed his line of sight.

Isben sighed and scratched the back of his head. "Closest terminology possible."

"She has blood on her clothing and has a look in her eye." Vimund narrowed his eyes and flexed his fingers. "Looks agile, too."

"Oh, she is, she is." Isben lifted a hand up in greeting and wasn't surprised when Shêza didn't even nod her head in response. Slowly, she made her way over to them, keeping her eyes on Vimund. "Good morning," Isben said once she was as close as she could bring herself to them.

She grunted and adjusted the bow on her back.

Isben gestured between the two of them and said, "Shêzanaré, this is Vimund Brawn-Haul. Vimund, Shêzanaré."

Vimund inclined his head. "A pleasure to meet you, my lady Nord."

Shêza nodded once, too busy studying the scars across the man's face and bare arms. She shifted on her feet before turning to Isben. When he stared at her with a blank look on his face, she huffed and gestured to his bow.

"I see your teacher has arrived," Vimund laughed. "Ah, well, the Gildergreen won't be going anywhere any time soon. Another time, perhaps."

"The Gildergreen?" Shêza looked up into the bare branches of the tree, a sad look in her grey eyes. "What do you know of the Gildergreen?"

"Only that hagravens are guarding the means to restore it to its former glory," Vimund said.

"The Gildergreen is but a sapling compared to its mother, the Eldergleam," Shêza said. She ran a finger down its bark as if it was a baby bird instead of the gnarled tree before them. Her gaze hardened and she whipped her head toward Vimund. "For hagravens to desecrate it in this way... those _beasts. _They will pay for this crime against Kynareth."

"I never knew you were religious, Shêza," Isben said with a small smile.

"There is a difference between religion and honor," she said. "You know how to use that axe?"

Vimund smirked and let a wolfish grin split across his mouth. "The Companions wouldn't have accepted me into their ranks if I didn't."

"The _Companions," _she spat. "And why haven't _they _tried to right this injustice? Are they not supposed to see to the people of Skyrim?"

"This situation is borderline politics." Vimund crossed his arms. "War's driving everyone to the brink, miss. Danica explained that the temples are being used as respites for soldiers and the wounded. For them to ask for aid, even in something that does not relate to the Rebellion, would give them... unwanted attention. It is not the will of the Divines to stoke the fires of war in the hearts of Man and Mer."

"Is that what your Harbinger taught you into memorizing?" She hissed and shook her head. "Whatever the reason, it's a stupid reason. No. This is not a Companion matter. There's not enough honor involved in it for them."

Vimund clenched his jaw.

"But it can be used to prove your worth as a Companion," Isben suggested. "Maybe give you a different job other than serving mead?"

Vimund rubbed his beard. "You have a point there, friend." He shrugged and slung his pack from around his shoulder and pulled out his map. He laid it out on the bench for both of them to see. "Danica said that the hagravens took the Gildergreen's instrument and hid it away in Orphan Rock. It's southeast from Whiterun, about a day's walk there. If we leave now, we can make good time."

"Nettlebane," Shêza said. "The hagravens are guarding Nettlebane. It's said to be the only blade able to cut through the bark of the Eldergleam."

"A good swing with a sharp axe wouldn't hurt to try, either," Vimund said with a chuckle. He cleared his throat when Shêza glared at him.

"And?" Isben prompted. "We find Nettlebane, we take a cross section of the Eldergleam? Then what? Do we replant the Gildergreen and hope for the best?"

"We need the sap," Shêza huffed. "Honestly, do you _not _know these legends? I thought you were an alchemist."

"I'm a scientist, my lady, not a legend-chasing fool."

"Well." Vimund clapped his hands together and packed his map away. "We'll explain the lore on our way there, aye? Don't want to burn any more daylight, now do we?"

* * *

"He is a warrior," Shêza said loud enough only for Isben to hear as they followed Vimund out of Whiterun. She made sure to place herself behind him—probably to keep an eye on him—and just a little to the side of Isben.

Isben nodded and hurried over to the side of the road to snatch up another handful of mountain flowers. "He served in the Great War."

Shêza made a sound in the back of her throat, and he didn't need to look at her to know she wore a disgusted look on her face. "You trust him?"

"Hasn't given me any reason not to." Isben stuffed the flowers into his pack and trotted after Shêza. "You don't?"

"I don't trust where he earned those scars. Some of them are... vicious."

Isben eyed the scars crossing over the thick muscles on Vimund's arms. He bobbed his head up and down. "I wouldn't want a sap with me."

"You mean another you?" Shêza threw her head back and laughed when Isben pouted. She skirted away from him when he moved to slap her arm.

"So, I'll have two arrows at my back, eh?" Vimund called over his shoulder. "Not what I'm used to, but it'll be a nice change of pace."

"More like one and a half—"

"One and one eighth," Shêza snorted.

Vimund laughed and headed up the slopes to Riverwood. "Still learning, eh? No harm in admitting that. I can respect that, Dragonborn."

"Respect won't save us from Dragons," Isben said.

"Nor will cowardice," Shêza snapped back. She moved to the side, letting Isben pass her, and sniffed the air for any sign of trouble. She cringed when she smelled the telltale scent of _Ivor _on a bush. _Must have just taken a pee-pee._ When Vimund and Isben were a few good paces ahead of her, she picked up a loose stone and lobbed it into the woods, snickering when she heard a small _oof! _

"Keep watching, cousin," she whispered. "You might learn something."

"Modest folk here," Vimund said as he and Isben past through Riverwood. "Good, hardworking people. True Nords of Skyrim."

"As fine as a quaint village will ever be," Isben said with a shrug.

"Village life isn't for you?"

"I'm city-borne. I'm used to the hustle and bustle. Too much static... upsets me."

"Ulcers?"

"Might as well be." Isben gave a small wave over to Gerdur when they past by her house, and she returned it with a smile.

"You seem to have quite the reputation here," Vimund mused. "Good. At least one of us does." He looked back behind them to see Shêza lagging a few paces behind, keeping to herself and refusing to make eye contact with any of the villagers. "Is she always...?"

"From my observations? Yes. Further tests will need to be done for more information."

Vimund laughed and rubbed his hands together. "You attract strange members of the fairer sex, my friend."

"If I could repel her, I would."

He chuckled and clapped him on the shoulder. "She's probably better than what you give her credit for, aye?"

"You were never used as live bait by her before."

Shêza looked at them when Vimund gave off another hearty laugh—a sound she was beginning to associate with the man—and couldn't help but to smile. That smile fell off her face like a troll off a bridge when Isben chose that moment to turn and make eye contact with her. She scowled and growled at him, finding some satisfaction when he quickly turned around.

* * *

"Bloody wolves," Vimund snarled as he swung his axe at another one of the beasts. "You'd think they'd leave travelers well enough alone. Don't they know we're armed and ready for them? Miserable beasts."

Shêza fired off another arrow and felled a wolf trying to sneak its way toward Isben. "They're hungry, and we're in their eating grounds."

"Aye? Well, now they're dead." Vimund cleaned his axe on his kill's fur and grimaced. "Poor sods. Probably just wanted to get some breakfast. Didn't survive the War to end up in your stomachs, though." He set his axe down and unsheathed a knife at his boot and started to skin the pelt off of the corpse. He looked up when he heard a gag and shook his head when Isben excused himself.

Shêza rolled her eyes when she heard him heaving and retching up whatever he ate that morning. "Tit-licker," she scoffed.

"Give the boy a break," Vimund said. Finished with cleaning the corpse, he rolled the skins into his pack. "Not everyone can stomach guts and entrails."

"That's our Dragonborn," she growled. "You wager those flying demons care whether or not he pukes at the sight of blood?"

"Scolding him won't fix anything. You whip a horse, and it'll only continue to shy away from its surroundings." Vimund stood and collected Isben, making sure his bulky frame hid the wolf carcasses from his view. "Let's be off. Hate to see if there are more of these buggers nearby. Probably have a nice cozy den somewhere around here most likely."

Shêza bristled.

They past a small group of Ritual Stones, Vimund explaining their blessings along the way, and continued their trek up the steep slopes through the mountains.

"Cold up here," Isben said when sprinkles of snow started falling.

"Should have brought a cloak, friend. I'd say it's about to get colder." Vimund chuckled and adjusted his axe. Isben gave the man a long look before rolling his eyes. He had enough meat on his bones for a mammoth to keep warm.

"Well, I hope you're not right about—"

Shêza hissed when she walked into his back and shoved him with her hand. When Isben still remained rooted in spot, she looked over his shoulder to see what he was looking at.

Vimund crossed his arms. "A fortress?"

"No," Shêza said quietly. "You can hardly recognize it, can you?" She took Isben's arm and motioned Vimund over into the brush. He followed without question, and Shêza cringed with each step he made; his armor was louder than Ivor's snoring.

"Helgen," Isben said once they were concealed in the bushes. "Or what's left of it."

Vimund's eyes widened and he stared in shock at the ruined village before them. "That can't be! The place is overrun with bandits now! Look at them, flaunting corpses about and parading through the ramparts as if they own the place." He hefted his axe and drummed his fingers against the length of the weapon. "Makes me want to bash some skulls in."

"Three of us against an entire fortress? Even if we were to hail them with arrows first, we would not stand a chance."

Vimund turned a furious eye onto Shêza. "Those villagers died because of a Dragon! They were caught unawares and did their best to defend their city with their lives! They didn't sacrifice themselves to let these miscreants take over their homes!"

Shêza lowered her head. "Then you would make their sacrifice be in vain if you threw your life away. No; today is not the day to retake Helgen. The village is going nowhere. We will tell the Jarl of this news and see if he has any men he can send to purge the village of this crime."

Vimund's nostrils flared as he stared at Helgen's gates and at the bandits casually leaning against the battlements. "Those sons of bitches... I didn't join the Companions to sit on my haunches and do nothing."

Shêza shook her head and squeezed his arm. "It is not a stain on your soul for not retaliating against this. These... _men, _if you even want to call them that, will face their judgment. One day. Just not today. Even a warrior must know when to choose his battles." She waited until the rage in Vimund's face died down before leading them further away from the main road.

Isben followed along, his face pained as he remembered those terrible fires. The sounds, the sights, the _smells... _

"Aye," Vimund said after they cleared Helgen. "Aye. Orphan Rock should be just up ahead. Good. I need to kill something."

"It's colder here," Isben said as he and Shêza followed Vimund through the brush.

She nodded. "There is something evil here." They stopped when Vimund held up a hand, and all three of them fell into a crouch—Vimund doing his best. Shêza lifted her head and took deep lungfuls of air.

"I'd know these smells anywhere," Vimund growled. He shifted his grip on his axe and spat in the brush. "Smells just like the Thalmor and their cursed magic. If those damned elves are involved in this..."

Shêza cut him off with a wave of her hand. She crept ahead of them, keeping low to the ground and seeming to not even move a blade of grass. She used the environment to her utmost advantage, being sure to stay behind tree stumps and tall grasses and out of sight.

_I can smell you, but where are you?_

She calmed her breathing and opened her senses, letting her wereblood pool into her veins. _One further ahead, two to the right, and one... one very close. _She held up four fingers for Vimund and Isben to see. Slowly, she crawled back to them and unslung her bow.

"Hags," she murmured.

"Filthy casters," Vimund spat. "Just as bad as the Thalmor; all the mages are." He flexed his shoulders and readied his axe. "You two keep me covered with those arrows, aye? Don't want one of those mages hitting me with a spell in a blind spot."

"We're just charging in? No planning? No preemptive strike?" Isben frowned and looked at Shêza, hoping she'd support him with this. She seemed to be thinking along the same lines as him.

"You listen here, Dragonborn. I'm not cut out for stealth. I'm big, see? With an axe. I've got muscle, I've got momentum. That _is _the preemptive strike. Now quit chatting like housewives and let's see what the Dragonborn's made of." Without further ado, Vimund sprung to his feet, a warcry spewing from his lips, and charged ahead of them, his axe held out in hand. Shêza and Isben took either side of him as they followed a small ways behind for cover.

"You mage-bred cowards! Come and fight like a true Nord of Skyrim!" Vimund shouted again as he caught sight of the first hag. He yelled and swung his axe at the witch, cursing when she threw up a protective barrier just in time to absorb the shock of the blow. He swung again, the coiled muscles in his arms twisting with each movement he made, and swept one of her arms clean off. She screamed and charged a fireball at him, but had another think coming as Shêza's arrow found its way into her throat.

Vimund snarled as something cold crashed into his side. He turned his head to see another hag in the distance readying another frost spell his way. He snapped the icicle off of his iron armor and charged her. He faltered in step when another spell hit him in the center of his chest piece, and instead of following through with his attack, he veered behind a tree stump for cover. Splinters of wood rained around him as the hag pelted the bark with shock spells.

"Go ahead; waste your flimsy magicka reserves, you wretched thing!"

The assault on his cover stopped after a few more spells. After collecting his breath, he gathered his weapon and was about to charge back into the fray, but just in front of him, another hag was closing in. He swore beneath his breath and ducked just in time as a ball of fire exploded where his head just was.

"Dragonborn! Shêzanaré! Now would be a good time for that cover!" When no response came, he took the risk to look for them. He couldn't see Isben, but he saw Shêza standing on a raised cliff squaring off with an enraged hagraven. Vimund swore beneath his breath and let loose another cry when he caught a glimpse of magic from the corner of his eye. He turned just in time to have a shock spell catch him in the leg. It wasn't fatal damage, but it sent tingles up the entire limb and made him lose feeling in his right side. He swore and caught himself before he hit the ground.

He heard the crunch of leaves just ahead of him, and still continuing to feign injury, waited until an unfamiliar pair of slippers appeared in front of him, followed by the small _whisk _of a knife sliding out of its sheath. He smirked and brought his weapon up just as the hag tended to cut into his neck with her knife. He knocked the flimsy blade from her grasp, and with his good leg, pushed himself up to his full height and cleaved her head off with a swift blow.

Shaking out his leg, he ignored the pain and ran to where Shêza was still struggling with the hagraven. With the close quarters, her bow was not an option, and she had slices in her clothes and armor where the hagraven's claws had taken out chunks of her flesh. Vimund snarled and raised his axe, planning to tip the battle back into her favor. He carefully maneuvered his way across the fallen tree that connected the cliff to the rest of the land and announced his presence with another battlecry before swinging his axe at the hagraven.

"Where is the Dragonborn?" he shouted over the sounds of the hagraven's shrieking.

"He's not with you?" Shêza pushed Vimund out of the way as the hagraven tossed a fireball their way. It exploded once it connected with the ground and sent embers flying into the air.

"If he was with me, he'd be here, aye?" Vimund pushed himself to his feet and dealt another blow to the hagraven. Shêza took the opportunity to flank it and dug her knife into its exposed thigh. It screamed and reached behind it with its bony claws, but another swing from Vimund's axe hacked its hand right off. As it turned to screech at Vimund, Shêza swept her knife over its throat, ending its miserable life.

She wasted no time before clambering down the cliff, not even bothering with the tree as the makeshift bridge, and looking for Isben. Her ears picked up the sounds of a struggle, and she bolted in the direction of the sound, not paying any heed to Vimund calling after her.

Blood matted the shoulder of his leather armor, caking it to his skin. She sprinted as fast as her legs could carry her when she saw that the battle was not in his favor—not that they ever were. He'd forsaken his bow for the sword he acquired at the Barrow, and he and the hag were dueling. The hag, with one hand holding her knife and the other firing off spell after spell, would no doubt be the victor of their match if Shêza hadn't started screeching nonsense at the top of her lungs.

A shock spell collided with Isben, sending him sprawling onto his back. He gasped as the electricity coursed through his body, making him jerk his limbs out and choke on his breath. The hag cackled and raised her blade to end his life, but the sounds of bushes being trampled and screams had her turn around to see the madwoman charging right at her. Furious at being denied her kill, the hag readied another shock spell.

Isben clutched his chest and managed to prop himself onto his elbow. He glared at the hag's back and willed himself to climb back onto his feet, to fight, to protect Shêza. The shock spells were attracted to movement; they weren't like the fireballs that could be dodged, and Shêza was running right _at _her—

Isben coughed and managed to croak out, "_Fus!" _The Word's power, weak and immature as it was, managed to reach out toward the hag's ankles. The hag stumbled, a startled yelp escaping her lips as she suddenly fell forward, her spell all but forgotten as she landed right on Shêza.

Isben's eyes flew open as something in his mind popped, like a small hole opening in a dam and letting out a trickle of water. He clenched his eyes closed as he heard screams coming from the two women clawing each other on the ground. He could hear her _screaming, crying for help, smell her blood, hear it splatter—_

_ Taste it like the Fires. Like Yol._

Isben's mouth opened like that of a fish's out of water. He clutched at his scalp and tugged his hair, those orange eyes boring into his mind again. He tried to scream, tried to tell someone what he was seeing—_eyes, orange, not human, the Dragon's! Mirmulnir! He can see me! He is watching me!—_but nothing, not even a whimper, left his mouth. His heart pounded against his chest, and he swore that at any moment it would tear free from its cavity and pop out of his ribcage. He almost wish it did. Then he wouldn't have to see those eyes.

A squelch reached his ears, like a knife splitting into a ripe fruit—_like Vimund beheading the hag. _Bile dribbled out of the corners of Isben's mouth, and he felt hands on him turn him onto his side—_so grateful—_so he wouldn't choke on his own vomit.

"Arm... burned..."

Isben closed his eyes tighter as his body purged itself of his breakfast. The veins in his forehead stood out against his ashen skin, and it was all he could do to not tear them out in frustration for not being able to communicate _what was happening. _

"Doesn't... good... hear... aye?"

He tried to find the trickling water, the feel of Kynareth's winds, the smells of the forges, but nothing. Instead, he found the darkness with the orange eyes staring at him.

* * *

Shêza swatted the strands of the hag's hair and flesh off of herself and crawled over to Vimund. "Why is he so ill?"

Vimund shook his head as he watched vomit pour like a river from Isben's mouth. Mindful of his shoulder, he eased him onto his side. "I don't have the foggiest, miss."

"Why will he not make a sound? Is he poisoned? Is it a spell?" Shêza dug through his pack and pulled out several healing potions. She was about to uncork them, but Vimund stopped her with a hand to her shoulder.

"Those will be pain killers at best for him. What he needs is a healer. Aye, and a good one, too. His arm's burned along with his shoulder. At least it was magicka-based fire, not the real thing."

"What's the difference? Fire is fire."

"Magicka doesn't scar as bad."

Shêza snorted and stuffed the healing potions back into his knapsack. She pressed the back of her hand to his forehead and frowned. "He's burning up with a fever."

"Aye. He doesn't look good." Vimund tugged his waterskin from his belt and poured some water on Isben's forehead. "Dragonborn. Can you hear us? Say anything, make a noise, wiggle your fingers. Anything, aye?" Vimund frowned when they didn't receive a response. "Something's not right with this. We'll have to carry him back to Riverwood. I don't want to take a chance making it back to Whiterun. At least in the village he'll have a headstart at healing. You go retrieve Nettlebane from that... _thing _while I do something about him, aye?"

Shêza nodded before taking off toward Orphan Rock's highest point. She stepped over the fallen tree and curled her lip at the hagraven's corpse. There was Nettlebane, nestled in its tattered robes and looking like it wanted to be anywhere _but _on that hagraven. She plucked it from its body, giving it a cursory look. The blade resembled a tree branch in some ways, but looked dull and in need of a good shine. Shrugging, she tucked it away into her pack.

She spared a glance at the arcane enchanter on the other side of the cliff, not surprised to see the mechanism destroyed beyond recognition. _No wonder it took Vimund a while to catch up with me. _Shaking her head, she made her way back to him, passing by the three corpses of the hags that she and Vimund disposed of.

She stopped dead in her tracks, her body going on full alert. Something was wrong. She remembered distinctly smelling four hags, the hagraven not included. The hair on the back of her neck stood on edge as she instinctively took on an offensive stance. She fell to the ground, making her body as less noticeable as possible, and sniffed the air for any danger.

Nothing. Only Vimund and the Dragonborn.

She frowned, conflicted. While she trusted her wereblood, she didn't trust this situation. Two plus one did not equal four. Shêza stood and scanned the forest, thinking perhaps she might have missed something.

And she did.

Pinned to one of the trees was a hag with an arrow through its skull. Shêza inspected the body, and after finding it still warm, pulled the arrow from its forehead, not caring that the body crumpled to the ground at her feet.

Shêza's eyes widened when she saw the all too familiar arrow tip on the shaft. "Ivor's arrows."

* * *

Translations:

_Fus: _first word of 'Fus, Ro, Dah', meaning 'Force'

_Yol: _first word of 'Yol, Toor, Shul', meaning 'Fire'

**And FF, Fun Fact. **For those of you who don't know what potetballs are, they're dumplings. :) I like adding cultural foods into my stories, and potetballs are Scandinavian dumplings (there are many many many names for them, I just like potetballs), so I thought why not?


	12. Charming Outlooks

Skyrim belongs to Bethesda. Any OC, plot, or plot twist not recognizable belongs to me. I updated fairly quickly because my college evacuated due to hurricane Sandy, and there's hardly anything to do without any power. But alas, enjoy, and let me know what you think! **Fanart of Petra can also be found on my deviantart page: h.t.t.p.:././.e.r.a.-.a.g.e...d.e.v.i.a.n.t.a.r.t...c.o.m./.#./.d.5.k.k.m.n.7. (remove periods).**

* * *

"He's not looking any better, miss," Vimund called as he carried Isben through the woods back to Riverwood. "He's sweating up a storm here, and I'm afraid infection's going to settle in those burns of his." Shêza made her way back over to him and inspected Isben. Vimund gave her a look when he noticed she was favoring her right side. "You don't look too healthy yourself. Why don't you use those potions in his pack? Might as well put them to use."

She shook her head and walked alongside him. "We've been over this already."

"That hagraven dealt you a few good swipes. I can only carry one of you, aye."

Shêza regarded him silently before digging through Isben's pack and slugging back one of the potions. She gagged on the bitter taste of the potion, but took some comfort in feeling warmth seep throughout her wounds. It didn't close them completely, but it'd ward off infection.

"Good lass. Now, keep on scouting. I don't want any wise-bottom bandit getting an idea through his hollow skull."

By the time they reached the gates to Riverwood, the sun was just starting to set. Shêza had taken extra precautions to keep them off the main road and hidden from unwanted eyes—perhaps _too _many precautions. She rejoined Vimund and gave the unconscious half-elf in his arms a look. He was even greyer than before.

"Don't even think about offering to lend me a hand," Vimund said when he saw Shêza adjust her pack. She scowled and furrowed her brow. "You think I want to move him with his armor that bad on him? No, miss, don't fuss over it."

Without a word, she let him lead on, and fell back a few paces when he approached the guards stationed at Riverwood's gates. She noticed that their numbers had doubled; no doubt Balgruuf had sent the reinforcements Isben requested. She eyed them warily. If a Dragon chose to attack at that very instant, she doubted they'd be able to ward off its fires for very long, even with the bolstered ranks.

It was just like Balgruuf to do the bare minimum. Useless man.

"By the Nine, what happened?" The guards hurried over to Vimund, more of them pushing past the other when they recognized Isben. "He isn't...?"

Vimund frowned. "He's still alive, lads. Don't worry your skirts over it."

The guards shared more murmurs amongst themselves. One of them reached a hand over to the ruined side of Isben's armor, only to have it knocked away by Shêza. She hissed and took a step closer to the man, practically towering over him.

"Keep your hands to yourself, dog. What he needs is a healer, not some curious little twit poking at him like acne." She stared him down, challenging him to say something in his defense, deaf to the enraged whispers from the other guards. When the guard grunted and backed down, she uttered a _hmph _and turned to another guard. "After you."

Vimund raised an eyebrow, but followed them into the village. He leaned toward her and whispered, "You had to make them piss themselves?"

"They didn't have to touch him like some item on display," she spat back. Vimund hummed in response. They were ushered in a small shack just inside the gates, Shêza keeping close to Vimund all the while. Between him and the guard, he was less likely to attack her—he had his hands full with the half-elf. The guard gave Shêza an uneasy look as he held the door open for them, and he pressed himself against the doorway when she past by. She turned to face him once she was standing in the house, not at all liking the idea of having her back to this buffoon.

"Hilde is our healer. Set him down in the furs over there, and I'll see about fetching the woman." The guard left without another word, practically tripping over his own feet when Shêza shot him a glare. Vimund sighed but did as he was told, Shêza hovering over his shoulder.

Sven looked up from his workbench and gave the trio a curious lookover. "Mother didn't say anything about customers tonight. You must be travelers. It isn't Bone Break, is it? Heard that's been going around." When neither of them made to reply, he huffed and set his lute and crafting knife down on the table. When he looked over Vimund's shoulder, his face soured and he wished he still had his knife. "It's _him! _That meddling, good for nothing _elf!" _

Vimund moved his body so he stood between Sven and Shêza, partially to protect Isben and also because Shêza looked ready to rip this fool's throat out—not that he'd blame her. He crossed his arms and stood to his full height. "Aye, he is an elf. Part elf, part Nord, same as you, same as me. I expect some respect where it's due, friend."

Sven gawked and shook his head. "This is my village, my country, and my _home! _How _dare _you intrude on a man's birthrights! And what's more, you brought _these _with you!" He waved at Shêza and Isben, disgust written all over his face. "They're outsiders—same as you. Nord or not, you're not welcome here! Daedra take you all!"

"This isn't some ballad where your pretty words will win you what you want," Shêza growled. "This is a life we're speaking of."

"Oh? And what do you care for it? I heard how you dumped his body by the mill after you went to go do Jarl Balgruuf's bidding like the dog you are. You didn't even set one toe inside our gates."

Vimund placed a hand on her shoulder, but she shrugged it off. "Keep your hands off me."

"And all of you," Hilde said as she entered her house, "keep your voices down. Not good for the patient." She slowly made her way over to them and unclasped her cloak with shaking fingers. Sven was at her side in an instant, helping her out of the garment and leading her over to the furs. "Now, what have we here?" With her son's help, she sat her old body on the floor beside Isben.

"It's the half-elf from Helgen, Mother."

"I have eyes of my own, son. I meant his condition."

Shêza bit back a snort.

Hilde pulled back the furs and clicked her tongue when she saw his ruined armor. "Poor dear's been burned. Magic, too, by the smell of it." She glanced at Vimund. "You did well trying not to take his armor off. He would have bled out if you tried." She shook her head and soaked a rag in a small basin of water before placing it on Isben's forehead. "Sven, dear, get me my poultices. And bring the extra linen, too. Oh, and have Gerdur boil some more hot water—yes, she should be here any moment. You there, big man. I'll need you to hold him down in case he responds to the pain. Poor dear's in for a long night, I'm afraid."

* * *

Shêza leaned against a tree on the riverbank. Riverwood's guards still gave her uneasy stares, as if they expected her to pillage the village and murder everyone in sight.

_Probably expect me to eat their children, _she thought with a chuckle. She scowled when she caught a group of guards gesturing toward her and speaking in hushed voices. They could whisper all they wanted; she was cursed with keen hearing because of her lycanthropy and could make out every word they said. And what they said was nowhere near polite.

She sighed and ran a hand through her hair. She could also hear Isben's groans and grunts of pain coming from Hilde's shack. It was unsettling being cooped up, as if those four walls were slowly creeping closer toward her, and that idiot Sven hadn't made the living conditions seem any more appealing. Vimund had stayed behind to help in any way that he could, but Shêza had slipped out the moment the opportunity presented itself.

Healing had never been one of her strong suits. Weak was weak, strong was strong. There was the fit, and then there was the dead.

She looked over at Hilde's shack, not surprised to see the whole village still clustered around, trying to peep through the windows or peer through the door. That Camilla Valerius was beside herself with grief when she learned that the Dragonborn was injured in battle. Word spread like wildfire in this small town of the Dragonborn's injury. Shêza rolled her eyes. The only villagers allowed inside Hilde's shack were Hilde's idiot son and Gerdur, who had kindly offered her assistance and refrained from participating in Riverwood's gossip committee.

"Mind if I join you, miss Shêzanaré?"

Shêza looked to her side to see Vimund looking worse for wear. She inclined her head and watched as he knelt by the river and scooped a handful of water up before splashing it on his face.

"Will he live?" she asked quietly after Vimund was done.

"Aye," he nodded. "He'll live. His shoulder's heavily bandaged and he'll have a scar—multiple ones, actually. Hilde's watching over him to make sure his fever doesn't spike again. He's still pale; hopefully when he wakes he'll be able to stomach some food."

Shêza nodded and shifted on her feet when Vimund didn't take his eyes off of her. "There's a tavern in the village, miss. Probably not the best place to sleep, but I wager I have coin enough for two rooms." He stood and gestured toward The Sleeping Giant Inn. "Come, we should retire for the evening. It'll do us no good wearing ourselves out worrying over him."

Shêza hung back and nervously glanced side to side. While collapsing in furs sounded most appealing at the moment—especially after such an exciting day, thanks to that twitty half-elf—just the thought of being enclosed in another small room made her stomach flip. That, and Ivor's arrow was still in her quiver; she still had answers to find out.

"You go on ahead," she said. "I... I need some air."

"Air?" Vimund quirked an eyebrow at this and gave her a humorous chuckle. He took a few glances about them purposefully. When she sighed and gave him a firm expression, he held his hands up and smiled. "Alright, miss."

"I'll be back in the morning. Here." She pulled her pack off her shoulder and produced Nettlebane. She'd wrapped it in a scrap piece of cloth and handed it to Vimund. "It smells like tree sap."

Vimund laughed and took the blade from her. "Aye, that it does. Better than smelling like hagraven, eh? Be off with you, lass, and sleep well."

Shêza's mouth twitched in the semblance of a smile before she quietly stole away into the woods. She waited in the darkness of the forest just in case Vimund planned to follow her, though she knew that he was far too honest and loud to do such a thing. When she didn't hear or smell him, she continued through the woods toward her home.

* * *

Her people were still awake when she entered their little sanctuary. She stepped through the twisted tunnels, nodding here and there toward her kin that were gathered around in small circles speaking with one another. She took a few whiffs and grunted. She'd missed the evening hunt—elk, by the smells of it.

_I've been missing more and more hunts. Stupid Dragons and their stupid Dragonborn. _Shêza moved toward Ivor's chamber, her temple twitching the stronger his scent became as she drew nearer. When she pushed aside the fur divider, she had to choke back a huff at the scene in front of her.

There he was, lying down on his stomach, stripped of his usual leather vest and favorite snow fox shawl, with a servant massaging his shoulders and back. Petra was her name. She was a kind-hearted young woman who'd always served their pack, the Hedera Black-Coats. Usually she tended to the little ones, stitched clothing together from the furs the hunters brought from their kills, or helped prepare meals whenever necessary.

Petra had always put the pack before herself, and Shêza respected her for that. She also knew that Petra, along with every other female in their family, pined after Ivor and sought favor in his eye.

And Shêza knew that Ivor couldn't care less.

She crossed her arms and cleared her throat. Petra looked up from her work, not once stopping her ministrations on Ivor's back, while he made no acknowledgment of Shêza's presence.

"Shêzanaré," she said with a bow of her head. "Forgive me; Brute Ivor assured me it was alright—"

Shêza held up her hand and motioned to the divider with a jerk of her head. Petra bobbed her head up and down before rising and hurrying out of the chamber.

Ivor exhaled and turned his head to glare at Shêza. "Cousin."

"'Brute' Ivor—why do you insist on being unbearable?" She shook her head when he chuckled.

"I can't control how our family members choose to address me, Shêzanaré. Petra is very formal."

"Not to me she isn't. She addresses me by _name,_ not as Garald's daughter."

Ivor smiled lazily and stretched his arms out. "Perhaps your rank is not worthy enough of formalities. Besides, you're female. You have no title."

"Don't start with me, brute," Shêza said. "Why was Petra even here? I thought you were not interested in her."

"Maybe a back rub will jog my memory. Since I _was _so rudely interrupted," he added when Shêza looked close to slapping him. He held her gaze until she capitulated with a roll of her eyes. He smiled smugly when he felt her resume Petra's work. "Someone threw a rock at me today." He gave Shêza a knowing look over his shoulder before continuing with, "I needed a back rub, Petra offered, I accepted. And right you are, cousin—for once. I am not interested in something so plain and drab."

"She has a good heart, Ivor—"

"She is a servant, Shêzanaré. We have many beautiful women in the pack, but I plan on making myself sparse in case Garald wants to promise me to another pack."

"Good, I hope he does. Then I won't have to see your grotesque face."

"The other females think differently."

Shêza snorted. "The other females don't have a skeever's bottom as a cousin."

"I can say the same." He winced when he felt her dig her nails in his skin. "But the fact remains. Petra is very homely. I could never find myself attracted to red hair or hair that short on a woman."

"I think she is sweet in her own way." She used her elbow to rub the small of his back and made a face when he whimpered in delight. "Baby."

"Don't deny a Brute his pleasures." They shared a chuckle at this.

"Don't tell the other females that, Ivor."

"They may pleasure me all they want." He hissed when she squeezed his side. "With their eyes, of course. I am no barbarian to seek flesh out."

She nodded. "Did you participate in supper's hunt? Were the elks skittish?"

"Of course I was there, Shêzanaré. Garald has me in charge as supervisor for the younger hunters. And the elks were manageable. More or less." He closed his eyes in contentment when she started on his shoulders again. A growl so baritone in pitch it was almost a purr reverberated in his throat. "You're good, cousin, I'll admit that much. But Petra's hands are better. Know where all the knots are."

"Of course."

He frowned from her tone. "Did you seek me out for a reason, Shêzanaré?" He peeked open one eye when he heard a _chink _next to his ear and stared at his arrow lodged in the stone floor. "Ahh, so now we come to the heart of the problem. How is your little Dragonborn? I thought for sure that hag was going to finish him off. Wouldn't that have been the tale!"

She'd stopped the massage, but she still straddled his back, keeping him where he was. And she bloody knew it, the damned she-wolf. "Why mock us and then save his life? Would have been easier to let him die and then report my failure to Garald, wouldn't it?"

"I have obligations as well, cousin. Though I despise you with every piece of fur on my pelt—especially the fur near my hindquarters, mind you—I am not vain enough to put that before the pack."

"Speak sense, Ivor. I grow tired of your fancy words."

He sighed and craned his neck to look her in the eye. "And I grow tired of your pea-brain. If the Dragonborn falls, who else is going to slay these Dragons? Do you think there's a line of people waiting to kill those beasts? _No. _If the Dragonborn dies, then the Dragons are free to fly rampant and do what they wish. Who knows how far they will spread and if they will affect our way of life? So you see, Shêzanaré, I succeeded where _you _failed: keep the family safe at all times."

"You say such bold and heroic words, Ivor, yet you do not even show your face. If you want recognition for your efforts, make yourself known and we will accept you."

He threw his head back and laughed, but she caught a glimpse of that sly look in his eye. "And what? Assimilate myself with Men and Mer? Cousin, are you that foolish? We are not the same as them, no matter how much we may look it. You know what Secunda does to us, what it turns us into. You think they will accept you for who you are if you were to transform?"

Shêza's nostrils flared. She had no response for him, for she didn't know. Isben was terrified of anything not found in a shop or city, and Vimund—

There would be no telling what that man would do.

She crawled off of Ivor and chose to glare at him. He stretched and flopped back down on his stomach, looking like the cat that ate the cream. He just smiled at her, but it boiled her blood and made the wolf inside howl in fury. He looked over her shoulder, and Shêza turned around when she heard the rustling of the divider.

Helena, with her face scrunched up and strips of jerky held in her hand, pushed aside the furs and let herself into Ivor's chambers. "Iv, have you seen Dagfinn?" Her face immediately brightened when she saw her sister, and without preamble, she hurried over to her and laid perpendicularly across Ivor's back. He huffed but didn't make a complaint.

"No, I haven't seen Dagfinn. Did you check the eating chambers?" But she wasn't listening; she was too busy babbling to her sister, telling her all about her day and offering her pieces of jerky in between the tale. Soon Shêza had eaten all of the jerky, and Helena, with her free hands, idly started braiding pieces of Ivor's hair.

"And Petra taught me how to mend a tear today, but I kept poking myself with the needle. See?" She held her hand up to show her sister the small pricks in her palm. "Petra's really good at sewing. She's making me and Nyssa shawls out of the snow sabre cat pelt you and Father hunted last winter."

Shêza turned Helena's hand over this way and that, smiling when she heard her sister giggle. "Petra's very good at what she does." She shot Ivor a pointed look. "Maybe one day you'll make me a shawl, too?"

"Maybe, but I'll never be as good as Petra." Helena shrugged. "Nyssa and I wanted to go sunbathe tomorrow! We wanted to today, but it was cold and started to drizzle, but Father said tomorrow would be better! Can you take us tomorrow? Can you?"

Shêza's heart fell to her stomach when she saw the hopeful look on her sister's face. She felt Ivor's eyes on her, but she dared not break eye contact with Helena. She squeezed her hand. "Helena, you know I'm very busy—"

"I'll take them," Ivor said.

Shêza narrowed her eyes at him. "Pardon me?"

He shrugged. "I'd like to go, too. I haven't spent time with either Nyssa or Helena lately. It'll be nice catching up with them. I know someone else who would like to come, too."

Helena looked at him uncertainly, but her face lit up like a torch when he pulled out a worn fox tail from beneath his head. "_Dagfinn!" _She grabbed the tail and cuddled it to her face, thanking Ivor profusely and throwing her arms around his neck. "I was looking everywhere for him! Oh, thank you, thank you, Iv! Now I can go tell Nyssa to stop looking. Father's going to tell the little ones the story of Fenrisulfr tonight, and I wanted Dagfinn to be there—thank you, Ivor!" She continued to babble and climbed off of his back. "And Petra's there, too—she's still waiting for me, I told her to save me a seat around the fire, I have to go!"

Ivor and Shêza watched as Helena scurried out of the room with Dagfinn clutched to her breast, only to come hurrying back in to hug her sister and kiss Ivor on the mouth.

When she was gone, Shêza shook her head at her cousin. "You're such a softie."

He shrugged and continued to smile. "She's charming." He gently fingered his braids and frowned when Shêza still gave him an incredulous look. "What?"

"Nothing." She shook her head again. "Nothing."

* * *

"Easy, lad. There's no rush. It's still the wee hours of the morn, and you're still injured," Vimund said as he helped Isben into a sitting-up position.

Isben shook his head, but immediately regretted the action when he felt another wave of nausea wrack his sore body. "We have... to get... to Whiterun," he panted.

"Aye, that we do, and we will. Just not now." He sighed when Isben looked ready to protest. "Lad, look. I'm no healer, aye? But even I can see that you're not healthy. You can't even make it out of bed without me helping you!"

"That's... not true," Isben said. Vimund's words were proven true when the Nord man stepped away from the furs and Isben ended up sprawled out on his back again.

"Aye, it is. You need your rest. You still can't move your shoulder, you haven't eaten anything yet, and you're grey. Have you seen yourself, lad? You're turning _grey. _People might mistake you as a Dunmer soon if you don't give your body the proper rest it needs."

"But Nettlebane—"

"Danica can wait another day or two for her little knife." He held Isben down with one hand when he tried to sit himself back up. "Trust me on this. You don't want to push yourself too far, friend. It won't be good for anyone. Nettlebane isn't going anywhere and neither are you." When Isben's weak struggles came to an end, Vimund removed his hand and moved over to the kettle and poured Isben a bowl of broth. "While you're up, you might as well try to eat, eh? Some food will do you good, lad."

He made his way back over to Isben, but dropped the bowl when he saw the man having spasms on the furs. He shouted for the healer as he helplessly watched Isben.

Isben's body arched off the bed and his eyes rolled back into his skull. His lips flapped together, but no sound left them. He felt that pressure in his mind again—_so familiar, so alien, so _wrong—and those _eyes. _

They stared at him, just watching him destroy himself. He wanted to scream: scream at the eyes to stop looking at him, scream for Vimund to _help, to swing his axe at those eyes, _and to scream at the healer trying to force him to drink something—_healing potion, made out of fungal pods, imp stool, and wheat._

The eyes blinked once, twice, thrice. Isben's own eyes shot open, his hazel furious as Mirmulnir still stared at him. His head pounded with new intensity, gathering strength the longer he held Mirmulnir's scrutiny. He couldn't stand this any longer: the hands trying to hold him down, the throbbing in his skull, the lip of the potion still prodding at his mouth. With a snarl, he jerked himself free of the hands, the Word bursting forth from his mouth.

* * *

Shêza finished smearing the warpaint on her eyelids and cheeks. She strapped her quiver to her back and slung her bow over her shoulder, ever careful not to make any sound. She knelt beside her sisters and readjusted the furs around them, smiling when she noticed Helena using Dagfinn as a pillow. She tucked a stray strand of hair behind her ear before kissing the crown of her head.

Nyssa stirred in her bedding and opened an eye. She smiled when Shêza looked over at her. "Petra left you some healing potions for your cuts in your pack."

Shêza squeezed Nyssa's arm through the furs and gave her a smile. "Give her my thanks, Nys."

She yawned and snuggled into her furs. "Yes, yes."

"And don't be too lenient with Ivor."

Nyssa nodded, and the corners of her mouth turned up in a toothy grin. "We can't be _too _nice to him, now can we? Don't worry. I'll have Helena smother him with her adorable charm."

Shêza chuckled and pat her sister on the leg. "I'll be seeing you. Take care, Nyssa. Practice your archery while I'm gone."

"Yes, yes," Nyssa murmured before falling back asleep.

* * *

Whatever villagers who were awake in Riverwood gave Shêza a wide berth as she entered through the gates. Even with the excitement from yesterday, life went on for the tiny village; Alvor was already at the forge, hammering away at a work in progress, Faendal was making his rounds to and fro the mill carrying woodpiles, the guards were changing rotations—just another day in Riverwood.

Shêza walked toward Hilde's shack and stopped in her tracks when she saw the old woman seated at her patio, knitting.

"Your friends are at the tavern. The Dragonborn should rest more, but I won't keep a menace under _my _roof." Hilde narrowed her eyes at Shêza. "And I don't exactly take kindly to you either, miss."

Shêza turned without a word and quietly entered The Sleeping Giant Inn. There was Vimund, arms crossed and a worried expression on his face as he looked down at Isben seated at one of Orgnar's tables. The innkeeper kept his eyes on the Dragonborn and his companion, not sure whether or not he should trust the half-elf and oversized Nord. Shêza quietly padded over to them, giving Isben a second look when she noticed the stern resolution in his eyes.

He pulled on his other boot, mindful of his injured shoulder, and started rifling through his pack. Vimund sighed and shook his head, but didn't say anything as Isben continued to prepare himself for the trip back to Whiterun.

"You should be resting," Shêza said in hopes of breaking the strained silence between them.

Isben grunted and pulled out a healing potion. He uncorked it and slugged back its contents. "I'll be fine," he said when he finished the potion.

Shêza furrowed her brow and crossed her arms. "You look like a corpse."

"I said _I'll be fine."_

Her nostrils flared and she felt her blood stir in annoyance. Vimund cleared his throat and motioned to the other end of the tavern.

"He is not well," Shêza said once they were far enough away from Isben so that he wouldn't overhear.

"Aye, he isn't. There was an... episode in Hilde's shack. It scared the poor woman out of her mind. He just... _shouted, _and I was forced away from him." Vimund shifted on his feet and gave Isben an uneasy glance. "He's not a mage, is he?" His fingers flexed in anticipation.

She shook her head. "I do not know why he has these abilities, but I think it relates to him being Dragonborn. Whatever it is, I don't have the answers. I can only speculate."

Vimund frowned and pursed his lips. "He wants to head back to Whiterun. Says that the healers at Kynareth's temple will be able to help him. I agree, but... well, _look _at him. I've seen Draugar with more color than him."

Isben gathered his belongings and joined them. His expression was drawn into a scowl. "We done gossiping, ladies? Yes? Good. I'd like to leave now." He turned on his heel without waiting for a reply and marched out of the inn. Shêza's pupils dilated in anger and she reached out to him with a snarl. Vimund held her back, and she targeted her frustration at him instead and smacked his hands away from her.

"Yes, let's follow the ungrateful _brat, _shall we? Back to Whiterun we go," she growled, her hackles raised. She appeased her anger by promising herself that the first opportunity she had, she'd pummel that half-elf. Senseless.

Isben trudged on ahead, ignoring the relieved greetings the townspeople gave him. In his mind, he felt Mirmulnir looking at him, and each time those eyes would stare, he'd banish them with _Fus. _It was a mantra, his saving grace, and each time he thought of the Word's power in his head, he felt his headache abate just that much. All he had to do was keep thinking.

_Just keep thinking._

He hardly registered the facts that he could feel Shêza glaring daggers in the back of his skull, Vimund occasionally walking abreast to him to peer at his face, or how Shêza made a comment when Danica Pure-Spring sent them to a different location where Nettlebane would be put to use.

But he did register the chattering pilgrim that stopped him just as he was about to leave the temple.

"Pardon me—"

Isben whirled around until he was nose to nose with the pilgrim. "_What?"_

The man took a step back and nervously cleared his throat. "P-pardon me, but I couldn't help but to overhear you saying that you had Nettlebane, the blade of Kynareth's Eldergleam—"

"Is there a point to this? I have somewhere I need to be."

The pilgrim bobbed his head up and down. "I am Maurice Jondrelle. I'm a pilgrim in search of Kynareth's beauty and graces in this world. I came to Whiterun to worship beneath the branches of the Gildergreen—please, wait!" He hurried around Isben to stop him from leaving the temple. "You are on your way to the Eldergleam, are you not? I beg of you, let me follow you and your companions there. I wish to praise Her Ladyship with the branches of the Eldergleam overhead."

Isben narrowed his eyes at the pilgrim as he appraised him. Shêza's mouth turned down in a scowl when she saw Isben actually considering the man's proposal.

With a sigh, Isben nodded. Maurice smiled and inclined his head in thanks. Shêza clicked her tongue and uttered a few choice words beneath her breath, not caring for the looks Vimund and Isben gave her.

"But don't cause trouble," Isben said when Maurice raised his head. "We have enough as it is." He stole a glance at Shêza.

She bared her teeth at him. "Aye, that we do."

* * *

**FF, Fun Facts****:**

** Male wolves are called 'brutes'. This is why 'Brute' is put before Ivor's name if formally referring to him. Females are only referred to by their name or as their father's child. This is because 1.) I think it's disrespectful saying 'Bitch Shêza' (as an example) and 2.) I think it's cheesy saying 'She-Wolf Shêza' (as an example).**

**Also with Shêza's pack name, Hedera Black-Coats: this was inspired partially by the ivy growing around their home. The genus of ivy is Hedera. The 'Black-Coat' part of the name is self-explanatory; the majority of the pack has either black or dark fur when in their werewolf form.**

**And with the story Garald told the children of the Hedera Black-Coats, the story of Fenrisulfr, this is the Norse story of the Wolf God Fenrir. Fenrisulfr is just another name for him.**


	13. Twatty, Troublesome, and Holy Kynareth

Skyrim belongs to Bethesda. Any OC or plot twist/idea that you do not recognize belongs to moi. Enjoy! **And for Fanart of Francis, my Thieves Guild OC, visit my deviantart picture of him: h.t.t.p.:././.e.r.a.-.a.g.e...d.e.v.i.a.n.t.a.r.t...c.o.m./.#./.d.5.k.p.x.d.6. (remove periods) For Fanart of Isben, visit: h.t.t.p.:././.e.r.a.-.a.g.e...d.e.v.i.a.n.t.a.r.t...c.o.m./.#./.d.5.l.7.i.0.t. (remove periods).**

* * *

Maurice proved to be an annoyance, just as Shêza expected he would. He preached about Kynareth and her blessings upon the mortals of Mundus whether or not anyone paid him any mind. Vimund occasionally would offer his speculations or try to steer the conversation in a different direction while Isben periodically pulled out his map for references.

Shêza merely glowered at the half-elf's back and prayed to the Nine that he would trip on a cobble and break his neck. As for the pilgrim, she wanted him to find his holy little way back to wherever he came from and to _stop _with the _Kynareth this _and the _Kynareth that. _

_I'll give him a reason to pray to Kynareth, _she thought with a smirk.

"Two fools instead of one," she whispered to herself. "How _cute." _

Isben stopped in his tracks to glower at her. She looked at him innocently, and his blood boiled. He felt the Word slam itself against his mind, as if it wanted out and into the world. He pictured it: him letting _Fus _out and sending Shêza into the river alongside the road, the bitch hissing and spitting as she pulled herself out of the channel.

He smiled at her, a coy and forced grin, before hurrying back to Maurice and Vimund. She barked a laugh and followed him.

"Hold up," Vimund said. "Tower up ahead. Be wary; they may not be guards."

"It's the Valtheim Towers," Isben said as he took another look at his map. "Bandit territory."

"Bandits are no trouble," Maurice said with a wave of his hand. "We have Kynareth on our side."

"Aye. And they have bows, swords, and axes," Vimund said.

Shêza drifted away from the group as they discussed their next choice of action. She veered off of the main road and climbed up a slope to have a better view of the towers. She knew that around this area were mammoths shepherded by giants, and sure enough, she caught wind of their camp. Careful to give them a respectful berth, she continued to climb up the rocks until she could peer down into the tower's inner workings.

_Four on this side. _She couldn't see across the channel that divided the towers to determine the exact number of bandits, but she could make out movement on the other tower. She glanced back down the slope and rolled her eyes when she saw Maurice still blabbering away. What stumped her was that Isben was nowhere in sight.

"I figured you'd choose stealth," Isben said from behind her. She hissed and whirled around to glare Death at him. "Vimund wanted to charge in and—"

"_Quiet," _she snapped. She yanked him down to her level and put a hand over his mouth. "Your words carry from up here. And I don't want to upset the giants."

He pulled her hand away and matched her glare with his own. "Fine then," he said in a hushed voice. "Don't mind the fool. Your plan?"

"Oh, I won't." She looked back at the towers, her brow furrowed as she ignored the look he gave her. "Vimund can handle the bandit outside of the tower. But that archer," she pointed to the archer positioned at the top of the tower, keeping watch, "might score critical blows to him. If he's a good shot," she added.

"Can you reach him from here?"

"There's a bandit on the level beneath the archer. Once the archer's dead, he's bound to notice." Shêza looked at Isben. "If I kill the archer, I won't have enough time to nock another arrow and silence the other before he raises an alarm."

"What are you saying, then?" When she still looked at him, he groaned and shook his head. She frowned from the noise, but he cut her off. "I can't hit him from here. It's too far away and he's standing behind a chair!"

"If you would stop _complaining _every other second, I could have told you my plan. I want you to miss."

He looked incredulous and raised an eyebrow. "You want me to miss," he repeated slowly. "First you nag me because I miss, now you want me to intentionally miss. Divines, the cosmos must be realigning. That, or someone else is the fool."

The hair on the back of her neck stood on end. "I want you to hit the side of the archer's lookout, lure him to the edge, and then I will take care of him. Once you release your arrow, quickly nock another one, and aim for the other bandit."

He blinked and bobbed his head up and down. "You want me to miss," he said again.

"It shouldn't be too hard for you."

He frowned when she sneered in victory. He muttered something unintelligent beneath his breath, but drew an arrow and pulled back on his bowstring. From the corner of his eye, he saw Shêza gesture to Vimund below them before she readied her arrow. The seconds seemed to stretch on as she waited for him to release his shot, and only when the _twang! _of his bowstring broke the silence did she feel her annoyance dissipate.

Somewhat.

She huffed and would have thrown her hand up in the air if she wasn't holding her bow. "You're ridiculous," she hissed.

Isben scratched his head as he watched the archer fly from the impact of his shot and tumble down into the channel. He landed with a _plop! _into the water. "Huh. I really thought I missed that one."

She groaned and withdrew her arrow to rub the bridge of her nose.

Below them, Vimund sprung into action. The bandit leaning on the outside of the tower unsheathed their weapon when they heard the archer's body splash in the water. Vimund, deciding to forfeit their stealth, drew his axe and charged in with a battlecry. Maurice stayed behind, unsure of what to do.

"And one more," Shêza said when the bandit in the tower heard Vimund. Her arrow put him to rest, and she slung her bow onto her back.

Isben gaped when he realized what she was about to do. "Are you mad? You can't run down this cliff!"

"Wasn't going to run," she said with a glare. Crouching, she approached the cliff's edge and slid down the side of the slope. Isben winced when he saw the tracks of red her bare feet left behind. Deciding that she was not only rabid but _insane, _he chose to backtrack.

Vimund roared and swung his axe at the bandit. The bandit—_a woman, _Vimund noted—brought their weapon up to block his swing, but the power behind his blow snapped the bandit's blade like a twig. His axe continued to arc until it cut into the bandit's side. Her scream was shortlived, as he brought his foot down on her face.

Wrenching his axe from her body, he looked up and nodded his head as Shêza joined him. "Our Dragonborn?"

"Dawdling."

"Good. It's about to be messy, aye." He continued into the tower, Shêza tailing behind him with her bow drawn, and stopped at the bridge connecting the two towers. "Narrow," he said.

"Single-file. Bandit," she responded and let loose another arrow. It lodged in an unprotected part of the bandit's helmet—right in his mouth.

Vimund grunted and adjusted the grip on his axe. "You better not push me, lass."

"I'll push if you don't start moving." A hint of a smile tugged at her mouth.

He chuckled and shook his head before starting the long trek across the bridge. "Archer on the other side, on the rocks."

"In my sights," she said before pulling back an arrow. She cursed when the bandit sidestepped her shot.

"I don't want to be pulling arrows out of my hide, lass."

"And I don't want to be distracted," she spat. She yelped when Vimund backed into her, and by luck, her arrow missed him. She almost went tumbling off the bridge, but she quickly righted her footing and regained her balance.

Vimund was squaring off with the bandit chief, a Redguard with a bone to pick. The chief forced Vimund on the defensive as he delivered blow after blow with his warhammer. Shêza cursed as she was slowly being backed up into the tower. She couldn't help this way, not with Vimund in front of her.

An arrow whizzed by her and struck the chief in the leg. He bared his teeth and pulled the arrow out of his leg with a swift jerk before turning his attention back to Vimund. Shêza followed the arrow's path and would have laughed when she saw Isben standing on the ground with another arrow nocked and ready, but Vimund stepped on her foot. She howled and quickly freed her foot from under his boot.

Most of Isben's arrows missed (and almost struck Vimund), but the ones that did make contact with the chief gave Vimund precious seconds to gain the upper hand. Soon the chief's head went rolling off of his shoulders and fell into the channel.

"Sorry, miss Shêzanaré," he managed to say between clenched teeth. She shook her head and was about to reply, but he lurched forward and fell to his knees. She grabbed his arm before he fell on his face and whirled her head around to see Isben on his way to them, Maurice following behind like a lost puppy.

"Let me see," Isben said as he knelt before Vimund. He pried his hand from his side and frowned at the blood seeping through his armor. Without a word, he removed Vimund's breastplate with Shêza watching over his shoulder. Isben dug through his pack and pulled out a pestle and mortar, followed by ingredients. He crushed the ingredients into a paste and slathered it onto Vimund's side. He rummaged around through his knapsack and frowned when he didn't find what he was looking for. He glanced at Shêza, and before she could react, he tore off a piece of her poncho and tied the scrap of cloth around Vimund's side.

She bared her teeth at him and felt her fingers twitch as her wereblood roared in outrage. Petra had made her that poncho, and though it was simple, it was still a gift and—

"Thank you, lad," Vimund said. "Don't think I'll be much help if we encounter another bandit any time soon. Damned bandits and their thrice-damned chiefs."

Isben helped him to his feet, Shêza still fuming behind him and Maurice still looking lost, and led him across the bridge and back into the tower. "There's no need to thank me. Those herbs should help ward off infection and give a boost to the healing process. I'll need to collect more of them, though." He let Vimund lean against the tower's wall.

Vimund nodded. "Aye. But along the way. We needn't waste time because of me. Danica's waiting, remember?"

"You'll kill yourself for a stick?" Shêza said with a curled lip.

Maurice clicked his tongue at her and started to attack her with more speeches about Kynareth's greatness and beauty. Isben only shook his head at her.

* * *

"We are officially out of Whiterun's Hold," Isben said as he referenced his map. "We'll be in Eastmarch in a few moments."

"Aye," Vimund said. Maurice had offered to help Vimund, and the Nord had slung his arm over his shoulder for support. Maurice didn't expect himself to slouch from the man's weight. "Whiterun plains are behind us now. Good; I was tiring of the burnt yellow grass."

"And now we have forests surrounding us," Maurice said with a bright smile. He tilted his head up toward the sun and sighed in contentment. "Truly a gift from Kynareth Herself."

Shêza's brow twitched.

Isben rubbed his temple as he felt a small throb. He hoped to the Divines that he wouldn't have another episode. He still saw those terrible eyes, but he would dismiss them with _Fus._

_ "_Did anyone pack food?" he asked.

"Only bread and dried fruit," Vimund said. "I doubt it's enough for all of us, though."

"Can you hunt?" Isben asked Shêza.

Maurice gasped. "You mustn't be serious! To take life in Kynareth's realm is sinful!"

"To die while serving Her is pathetic," Shêza mused. Before Maurice could protest further, she darted off into the woods. She could go for some elk, anyway.

* * *

"You are all barbarians," Maurice said from his place beside the fire. They'd stopped for the evening just outside of Mixwater Mill, a humble establishment with kind folk. Unfortunately, they had no room to spare for the travelers.

Shêza had no complaints with the sleeping arrangements. She had the sky above her and the sounds of the forest around her. A wave of nostalgia washed over her, and she wished she was back at her home. Nyssa and Helena would have been brushing her hair as they told her of their day—_Sunbathing—_and she would listen and add her comments here and there. Ivor would have eventually found his way to her, if only to see Helena and spoil her with the best parts of his most recent kill.

She sighed and continued skinning the goats she'd hunted for her party.

"We have to eat," Isben said with a scowl. He sat on his bedroll, his arms wrapped tightly around his stomach and his eyes averted from Shêza's handiwork. His stomach was making enough noise for a chorus, and he could feel that insistent _pounding _in his skull again. Vimund kept giving him uneasy glances, and he had to check himself numerous times to not tell the man to _stuff it. _

"Kynareth would disapprove," Maurice said.

"Kynareth gave us meat to eat," Vimund said with a short chuckle. "Lad," he said to Isben, "do you think you could make some more of that paste? Side's bothering me."

Isben responded with a curt nod and pulled out his mountain flowers, butterfly wings, and dragonfly wings from his pack and set to work. Vimund watched him with awe as he worked flawlessly to create the paste. "You really have a knack for alchemy, friend."

"This isn't alchemy," Isben said with a sigh that might have been exasperated. "I'm not making a potion. It's just a salve." _Anyone can crush butterfly wings, _he thought dismally.

Vimund did his best to shrug. "Still. What you do is respectful. Not everyone can treat wounds."

Shêza glanced up from her work and watched Isben as he mercilessly grounded the ingredients into a thick paste. She creased her brow. "Your fingers are stained," she commented quietly.

Isben snorted and added some water to finish his product. "Almost two decades of alchemy will do that to a person."

"You look good for your age," Maurice said. "Kynareth has blessed you. Or it could be the elf in you."

"I've thirty-one summers," Isben snapped at the man. "And _yes, _it is the elf in me, thank you very much." He finished his salve and stood to apply it to Vimund's side. "People see the damned ears and they immediately think the worst. Well, _excuse me _for not being like everyone else. Damn," he muttered.

Shêza grunted. Maurice fumbled for an apology, but Isben silenced him with a glare. If that man said one more word to him, he might do something he'd regret. Or not regret, as the case may be.

"Now, if you will pardon me, the _elf in me _will be going to sleep now," he said when he finished smearing more paste on Vimund's side and rewrapping his makeshift bandage. "But don't worry; I'll still look the same in the morning. But what do I know? Maybe I'll look a year younger. Because of _course, _it's the elf in me."

Shêza scowled and clenched her fist. "Why am I preparing a meal then if you aren't going to eat?"

"One missed meal won't hurt," Isben said over his shoulder. He crawled into his bedroll and pulled the furs up to his chin and curled up into a ball.

"Lad, you really should eat as much as you can," Vimund said. "You're still very pale—"

"I said I'm _sleeping." _He huffed and rolled over to look at Shêza. "Besides, I'm a fool, am I not? I should act my part and perform it well." He rolled over, not giving her the satisfaction of making eye contact with him, and closed his eyes.

She growled and threw down the goat before storming off into the woods. Vimund called after her, but he gave up the effort when she didn't reply.

Maurice blinked and shook his head. "They should pray. It helps in these situations."

Vimund made his way over to the goats and saw to finishing Shêza's work. "Maybe you should pray for them, aye?"

Maurice nodded and held his hands out to the fire. "I will. And I will pray doubly so once we reach the Eldergleam. Kynareth will see to their troubles, I know it. I just hope those two don't kill themselves before then."

* * *

Isben woke up with a start, beads of sweat clinging to his skin. He took in gulps of air and rubbed his eyes and face free of any remnants of sleep. He knew it'd be a long, horrible night—_pound, pound, pound—_and sure enough, it was. Mirmulnir must have taken a liking to visiting him in his sleep and depriving him of any rest, and last night the damned beast decided to bite off his ears while staring at him with those dreadful eyes.

_Fus _did not ward him from the Dragon's stare that night.

Isben closed his eyes and let out a breath. After a moment, he took in his surroundings. Maurice and Vimund were still in sleep's embrace, neither of them looking as if they had a nightmare like Isben did. Each time Vimund would snore, Maurice would jump in his sleep and huddle further into the blankets. Isben didn't blame him; Vimund snored like a bear.

But Shêza was nowhere in sight. _Hmph. _

He crawled out of his bedroll and ventured further into the forest. Once he was sure he was far enough away from camp for some privacy, he pulled his trousers and undergarments down to relieve himself. His head snapped up toward the canopy of trees when he heard a branch snap. He stared in dumbfounded realization when he saw Shêza sitting on one of the branches, watching him.

He schooled his expression into a neutral one as he continued to pee. Part of him wanted to pull his trousers back up—what would his mother have said if she knew he was peeing in the presence of a woman? (though, technically, Shêza was rabid, so she wasn't _exactly _a woman)—but he knew that she'd win this little bout if he did. Instead, he turned his gaze away from her and carried on with his business.

He still felt her eyes on him, even as he finished, made himself presentable, and walked back to camp. When he returned to her tree with a bowl of water, he knew he had her confused.

_Good. She deserves it._

He placed the bowl at the base of the tree and took a few steps back. He turned so his back was to her. "For your feet, when you slid down the rocks." He didn't hear her climb down the tree; didn't even hear a branch creak or snap. But he heard water splashing and could guess that she was cleaning her feet.

"Thank you," he said, "for watching over us last night." The splashing stopped, and he felt her eyes digging into the back of his head. He expected her to growl, but he didn't expect her to lob the bowl at him. He hunched his shoulders when the cold water splashed his hair and neck. He gasped when she swept his feet out from under him and had him pinned to the ground.

She straddled his hips and grabbed his chin. Shêza turned his head this way and that, inspecting him. He stared in shock at her, too afraid to make the smallest of movements. She narrowed her eyes at him and uttered a 'hmph' before climbing off of him and stalking back toward the camp.

He blinked in confusion and remained on the ground for several minutes before picking himself back up.

* * *

"Do you _feel _that?" Maurice asked. He ran a hand through his hair and grimaced. "The humidity here is atrocious!"

"Kynareth must not like this place," Shêza said as she followed the group through the rocky terrain. Geysers erupted all around them, making the air sticky and humid. She felt her hair frizzing up and was glad that she kept it tied back out of her face. Vimund's, on the other hand, looked horrendous.

"Her Ladyship has reasons for everything," Maurice said in Her defense.

"She sends the people She hates here," Shêza replied with a sneer.

Vimund coughed to conceal his chuckle while Isben led the group past the geysers. They past the hot springs, and he had to muffle the urge to jump in the warm water for a bath. His hair felt greasy and the humidity wasn't helping in the least.

"Nonsense!" Maurice said. He raised his chin and refused to be dissuaded by Shêza. "It's probably a very pleasant place for people who don't mind the boiling, muggy, sticky, pore-disturbing humidity."

"You're a Breton, aren't you?" Vimund asked.

"Yes, what of it?"

Vimund shrugged. "Nothing of it, lad. Just asking. You don't have that air of arrogance about you to label you as an Imperial. But you don't have the Breton accent."

"Ah, yes, that. I wasn't born in High Rock."

"But you still have the Breton attitude about you. Aye, yes, you do."

"What is that supposed to mean?"

"Can't stand any inconveniences."

Maurice sniffed and turned his nose up. "I'm afraid I don't know what you're talking about."

A sudden roar caused the entire group to come to an unsteady halt. Shêza's wereblood sang in anticipation when she recognized the vile sound. Vimund swore and had his axe in hand in the blink of an eye. "What in the name of Talos was that?" He looked around, determined to find the source of the sound.

Maurice nervously glanced to and fro. "It didn't sound like a bear."

"It wasn't," Isben said quietly. His entire face had gone white as a sheet, and he and Shêza shared a brief look of terror before he turned back to Vimund and Maurice. "That was a Dragon."

Maurice choked and Vimund gripped his axe tighter. "You're positive?"

Isben nodded. "We're close to its den, most likely. I can... feel it."

"Then we are at a disadvantage," Shêza said. "This is its territory. We are outsiders, unfamiliar with the terrain."

"If it can bleed, then we have the advantage," Vimund said firmly. He drummed his fingers against his weapon and looked ready to charge at something. "If this creature is kin to the one that destroyed Helgen, just show me where to swing my weapon."

Another roar sounded, and the party dove beneath outcroppings of rocks for cover. "Kynareth preserve us," Maurice whispered. He kissed his amulet of Kynareth and gulped.

Isben peered over his rock and felt his blood run cold when he saw the Dragon circling over a plateau of steep, uneven rocks just ahead. "It's alert."

"It knows we're here," Shêza said from beside him. "It can smell us, probably."

"C-can we go around? Just take a detour?" Maurice asked.

Isben shook his head. "No; the Eldergleam Sanctuary is in the heart of the geysers. We need to pass this Dragon."

"Well, good luck with that," Maurice said. "I'm no fighter; I'm staying right here."

"We can use him as bait," Shêza suggested. "Wouldn't be too much of a loss."

Isben shushed her with a wave of his hand. "Quiet. I need to _think—"_

"We use the rocks as cover, gradually making our way toward the Dragon," Vimund explained as he joined them, leaving Maurice by himself. "If it sees us, we surround it, but never in a cluster, no. Miss Shêzanaré, I believe I will be needing your unique rip-it-apart-until-it-dies fighting style. Isben, lad, I want you using that sword. It's dull, but it'll rip its scales. Try for its belly or wings." When the group stared at him, he explained, "It's a tactic we used back in the War whenever we were trying to flank our enemies."

"Are you alright for this?" Isben asked.

Vimund scoffed. "A little scratch in my side, and you worry yourself like a mother hen. Aye, I'm fit for this."

Maurice scuttled over to them. When they heard the Dragon circling over again, they mashed themselves against the rocks, hoping that the Dragon wouldn't see them.

"I know some healing spells, in case one of you is injured," Maurice offered. "Granted, they're not that nourished, but—"

"A _mage?_" Vimund gasped incredulously. His nostrils flared and he hefted his axe. "I've been traveling with a vile _mage?_"

"Well, I _am _a Breton. And I only know healing spells. Nothing from the school of destruction from me."

Vimund looked close to hacking his head off, but a hand on his shoulder stopped him. He whipped his head around to glare at Isben.

"Use that fury against the Dragon," Isben said. Vimund huffed and shifted his feet.

"Aye, you can count on it."

They followed Vimund's instructions, all of them keeping to the rocks and using the shooting geysers as cover. Whenever the Dragon would pass overhead, they'd press themselves to the rocks and hope for the best.

_Of course, if it breathes fire, we're all doomed, _Shêza thought with a humorless smile. _Hope it fries the pilgrim first._

Maurice had fallen behind, too scared to follow the group further. When the Dragon made another round in the sky, the pilgrim had had enough. Sending a prayer of forgiveness to Kynareth, he stood from his cover and ran back the way he came, attracting the Dragon's attention like a moth to a flame. He screamed when he heard the the swooping of the Dragon's wings.

Isben, Vimund, and Shêza all turned around to see Maurice running for his life. Shêza growled and nocked an arrow. She released shot after shot at the sky until one of her arrows tore into the Dragon's hide. It roared and turned in its flight, deciding that Maurice was not a threat. It flew toward the rest of the group, bellowing its outrage.

"Here we go," Vimund said. He readied his axe as his other two companions darted away from him. The Dragon landed in front of him, and, once it was settled on the ground, immediately started to snap its jaws at him. Vimund met the beast's bites with swings of his axe, drawing blood from the spindly face while Shêza leapt on its back and tore chunks of its scales out with her bare hands. Isben circled around the Dragon toward its tail and cut into the tender flesh of its thighs.

The Dragon screeched when it realized it had been cornered. It lashed out with its tail, sending Isben flying off to the side. He collided with a jutting rock on the same shoulder that was burned, and the air was knocked from his lungs. The Dragon flapped its wings, preparing to take off in flight, and Shêza had no choice but to jump from its back. She broke her fall with a roll and screamed when flames licked out from the Dragon's jaws. It turned toward her, prepared to breathe fire on her. Vimund attacked it with all his might, trying to redirect its focus, but it ignored the gashes he dealt it.

Isben, still disoriented and in pain, scrambled to his feet when he realized that Shêza was to become a burnt corpse. He hurried over to her and Shouted. The Word sent her skidding forward toward the Dragon just as fire poured from its mouth. She slid beneath its stomach, safe from the flames, but Isben was not. He dropped to the ground and swore when he could feel the heat of the flames overhead. He heard the Dragon trampling toward him, still breathing that awful fire.

Shêza gathered herself and dug her claws into the Dragon's tail. She yelled in fury when she realized it was almost upon Isben, and without warning, she sank her fangs into its tail and ripped chunk after chunk of flesh.

The Dragon's fires died out and it craned its neck around to glare pure hatred at her. She knew that it knew exactly what she was—the look in its eyes told as much. It roared again as Vimund took the opportunity to swing his weapon in its exposed neck.

"Come on, you giant flying lizard! This is all for Helgen, you wretched beast!" Vimund snarled and hacked at the Dragon. It turned its head toward him and tried to take a bite out of him, but Isben was right behind Vimund. He charged at the Dragon, his sword drawn, and planted his blade right in the base of its skull. His sword cut through the scales on its face slowly, like a knife through frozen butter. Blood spurted out of the wound, but Isben was relentless. The Dragon still screeched and flailed its limbs in a wild attempt to break free.

"Vimund!" Isben shouted when he realized he couldn't hold onto his weapon any longer, not with the Dragon thrashing so violently.

"Aye, got it." Vimund let go of his axe still embedded in the Dragon's flesh, and took the hilt of Isben's sword in both hands. He twisted the blade in a half circle, careful to stay out of reach of the Dragon's teeth, and effectively slit the beast's throat.

It struggled for another moment before it collapsed with a loud thud, blood pouring from its neck, its mouth, its nostrils. Vimund yanked his axe from its neck and stared at the corpse in disbelief. "It's... it's really dead? The beast is slain?"

"No," Isben said with a shake of his head. "Not yet." Vimund opened his mouth to question him, but snapped it closed when the Dragon's skin started to burn and crumble away from its body. He took a step back as wisps of power—_Magicka? No, not magicka. There's no foul smell to it.—_started to weave their way from the Dragon's body. The strands grew in length and brightness, and Vimund watched as they gathered and twisted toward—

Isben braced himself as the strands flew toward him and entered his body. They pried his mouth open, just like last time, and slithered down his throat. He took a step back when he couldn't breathe, as the strands went up his nostrils. His vision blackened for a moment before returning to normal. He felt something settle in his body, a presence, something watching—

Not a Word, not something like _Fus. _Something alive, breathing, moving, _watching. _Something like Mirmulnir.

When he blinked, they were staring at him. Not one pair, but _two. _He wanted to scream. Instead, he shook his head and offered his best smile at Vimund who had placed a steadying hand on his shoulder and was watching him as if he expected him to drop dead at any moment. "Is there something on my face?"

Vimund scrambled to shake his head and cleared his throat. "No, no, ah—lad, what just happened? That wasn't magicka."

Isben shrugged and stared at the Dragon's skeleton. "I don't know. I believe it's exclusive to the Dragonborn."

"Have you spoken to the Greybeards, lad? They might know—"

"By _Kynareth!" _Maurice shouted in excitement as he scurried over to them. "By the Divines! Y-y-you're the D-D-Dragonborn!" He was practically jumping up and down in his glee. "I didn't recognize you at first! The artist of those posters really doesn't know how to draw you! Oh, blessed is this day! Kynareth has gifted me with this chance to meet you!"

"Oy, Breton," Vimund said with narrowed eyes, "you're babbling up a storm there."

Maurice bobbed his head up and down and blinked when he saw the clueless look on Isben's face. "You're saying you do not know? Oh, how could you not know? You're the _Dragonborn! _You're supposed to know!"

"What don't I know?" Isben asked with a hint of annoyance in his tone.

"Kynareth gifted Men with the power to speak the Dragon's tongue, of course! _She _was the one who started the legacy of the Dragonborn. Well, Her and the other Divines. But I credit Her with the idea. She _is _the goddess of wind and sky, after all."

Isben furrowed his brow. "Kynareth did this to me?"

Maurice's face fell and he held his hands out in desperation. "This is not a curse, Dragonborn! It is a blessing! Kynareth is not a Daedra; she does not punish! She only wishes for Men and Mer to prosper under her blessings!"

"So it's a blessing that I'm visited by _Dragons _in my sleep now, is it?" Isben's gaze hardened and he balled his hands into fists. "It's a _blessing _that a half-elf, half-Nord is Dragonborn, a title fit for a true-blooded Nord? Or even a King? Certainly not a lowly alchemist _half-elf _such as myself."

"You are mad," Maurice said with a finality that surprised Isben. "You are mad and scrounging for excuses. But you mustn't worry." He smiled at Isben and gripped his arm. Isben almost swatted his hand away. "Kynareth can help. She always does."

A cracking sound drew Isben's attention away from Maurice and to Shêza, who had been quiet up until now. She was inspecting the Dragon, plucking off bones and straggler scales here and there. She looked up from her scavenging and made eye contact with him. He joined her and knelt next to her as she yanked another bone off the corpse.

"Are you alright?" he asked.

She didn't reply and instead gathered more scales. "What are you thinking?" he tried again.

"I am thinking that I would very much like to sew the pilgrim's mouth shut." She paused for a moment and turned to look at him. Her expression softened—at least, he thought it did, given her warpaint. "And you have my gratitude."

"The cosmos is indeed shifting," he whispered. She held his gaze for another moment before continuing with her work.

"And that you are a foolish little twat."

Maurice made his way over to them then and placed his hands on Isben's shoulder, right where he'd bashed into the rock. His hands started glowing a calm orange as he began to heal his shoulder. Apart from the twinkling of his magicka, another sound filled the air: a quiet rumble that was familiar to him. Isben had to bite his lips to keep from smiling.

It was just Shêza growling.

* * *

**FF, Fun Fact. Maurice was a PAIN in my game. He refused to fight in any battle, but he looooooved to pick fights with ANYTHING that moved. Ugh. I had every Cave Bear out to get me for this quest (mind you, I was a little nublet then; my Isben now is level 48).**


	14. Little Trees & Bigger Threats

Skyrim belongs to Bethesda, but any OC/plot twist or idea that you do not recognize belongs to me! Thank you for the feedback, and enjoy!

* * *

The group made their way up the slopes toward the Dragon's den, Isben leading as his feet led him toward the large stone wall looming over them. Maurice trotted alongside him, practically skipping in joy and murmuring more praises about Kynareth's beauty and the Dragonborn. Vimund kept his eyes on the pilgrim, not trusting a _mage _anywhere near the Dragonborn. Shêza was the last in line, quietly watching the group and observing the scenery.

Steam shot out of cracks and trenches in the earth, doubling the humidity. She wrinkled her nose from the inconvenience, but Maurice outright complained about it. Vimund looked close to relieving the man of his troubles—namely with his axe.

Isben faltered in step when he heard a faint chanting on the wind, and he nearly groaned aloud when he recognized it. He braced himself for the unpleasantly familiar feeling of invasion as he approached the Word Wall.

Vimund glanced about, axe in hand. "I don't like the looks of this. Aye, look at all these corpses. Are those...?"

"Mammoth," Shêza said in confirmation. She'd know a mammoth skeleton anywhere. "These beasts hunt them."

"And not just mammoth," Vimund said as he nudged a human skull with his boot. "Divines, where has mercy gone?"

"Kynareth shows mercy on those who believe in Her and Her gifts," Maurice said with his chin held high. He puffed his chest out. "She is the reason there is so much beauty in the world, after all."

"I'm about to make it prettier with your tongue cut out," Shêza hissed at him. She flexed her fingers and would have followed through with her threat had Isben not chosen that moment to look over his shoulder at her and frown. She growled something unintelligent and stalked toward a skeleton.

Isben sighed and stepped closer to the Wall. The chant was booming now, pounding in his ears and making his skull rattle in his head. He wanted to plug his ears, but he knew even that wouldn't deafen his voice. He felt Mirmulnir and the other Dragon watching, waiting for him to make the final step so that he was touching the Wall. He wanted to scream at the Dragons to _stop looking at him like that, _but just the thought sent more prodding throughout his brain. He held his forehead with one hand while the other reached out to touch the markings on the wall.

Vimund watched as more of those strands slid from one of the etchings on the stone wall to trail over Isben's form. They eventually found their way into his mouth. The blue light emanating from the markings faded to a dull shine before disappearing completely, Isben having absorbed that as well. The Dragonborn fell to his knees and clutched at his head once the strands had completed their way into his body.

Isben blinked his eyes, trying to regain his vision and banish the darkness swimming around his peripherals. He frowned and held his hands out when he felt something warm slither across them, and he stared as he saw the Dragon's blood slide over his palms before his skin absorbed it. He wanted to gag and spit, but a hand on his shoulder made him turn his attention elsewhere.

Maurice stood over him, a healing spell in hand. Isben heard a yell and before he knew it, Maurice had been pushed away and in place of him stood Vimund.

"Keep that filth away from him, aye," he snarled at the pilgrim. "Kynareth will be witness to your death if you touch him once more with that _magicka." _

Maurice took in a breath and stood his ground. He and Vimund exchanged quips while Shêza padded around them. She looked down at Isben and shifted on her feet, as if she was uncertain what to do now.

He sighed and rubbed his forehead and eyes. "By the Nine, I hate that."

She was silent as she toed the ground.

"I know how an apple feels when a worm wiggles its way through it," he said with a weak smile. "Making holes this way and that, releasing pressure, weakening the inside. It's a rot." He shook his head and stood on shaky legs. "But it's a fool's destiny, I suppose."

Shêza glanced over at him, but didn't say anything. She had the decency to duck her head, though. "Can you read it?" she asked after a moment of silence.

He looked at the markings on the Word Wall and furrowed his brow. "I don't know."

"It's chicken-scratch."

"It's a language—_their _language." He moved about the Wall, following the markings across its width. After a few moments, he stood in the center of the Wall and wore a strange expression. "I... I can read it," he said. Without needing prompting from her, he ran his hand over the etchings. "'_All praise Bard Lunerio whose golden music became frost here in night.'"_ He paused and repeated the verse to himself. "Frost," he muttered.

_Fo._

He winced when he felt another pop in his mind. He heard the Dragon scream and its hold on him weaken. He held his head and leaned against the Wall for support, certain he would be sick. When his nausea died down to a tolerable level, he eased himself off of the Wall to find Shêza watching him. He wanted to snarl at her to look somewhere else, but he checked himself just in time. She saw the glare on his face though, and turned away from him.

He huffed and looked over at Vimund and Maurice. He rolled his eyes when he saw them almost at each other's throats.

"So, you think my magicka is a threat? I'll have you know my spells have saved lives!"

"_Ohoho, _saved lives! Your curse can burn a whole village down if not contained properly!"

"_What? _I don't see you wanting to murder the Dragonborn for having special talents! He's more unstable than a necromancer!"

Vimund's nostrils flared and his face flushed with anger. "Do not even compare him with those vile _creatures. _You have nerve even saying the term! I should cut you down now and save a poor, hapless wanderer from your recklessness!"

"Knock it off already," Isben spat at them as he walked away from the Wall. "We're wasting daylight and we still have the Eldergleam to see to. So put your differences behind, start walking, and _stuff it."_

Vimund glowered and bristled with raw anger, and Maurice looked just as appalled. Whatever words they had to say had no sway on Isben; nay, he already had his map out and was halfway down the slope with Shêza a few paces behind him.

* * *

"This place is..." Isben's voice died out as he stared in awe of the cavern before him. He blinked, expecting to wake up from a dream, but still the surreal grotto surrounded him.

Maurice joined him and smiled. "It is a piece of Kynareth's beauty in Mundus. It is truly a blessing from Her."

Isben dumbly nodded as he glanced about Eldergleam Sanctuary. Herbs ranging from mountain flowers to earthy moss, butterflies fluttering hither and thither over logs, pools with waterfalls cascading into them, travelers who'd taken the time to pay homage to Kyne, and above all of that—

Above all of that stood the Eldergleam, her branches spread out in welcoming of all to visit her sanctuary, offering shelter and peace to the weary traveler.

Shêza sighed. _Nyssa and Helena would have loved it here. _She could see her sisters playing in the grotto, spending their time beneath the Eldergleam's branches, sunbathing in the patches of sunlight that fell through the holes in the cavern's ceiling. She yearned for her home and family, and wished more than ever that she could see them.

She was brought back to reality when she spotted Isben approaching a landed butterfly like a wildcat on the prowl. Her lips twitched when she saw the concentrated expression on his face, and she snickered when Maurice came squawking over to him, berating him for trying to 'take advantage of Kynareth's gifts.' She shook her head and wandered farther into the sanctuary, taking in the breathtaking scenery.

"Miss Shêzanaré," Vimund said with a bowed head as he joined her in the grass. He sat beside her and let out a breath.

She made a noise at the back of her throat and continued to stare ahead, too engrossed with nature to pay him any real mind.

The tension in his shoulders died away as the sanctuary worked wonders on his soul. "There is something in the air here. Aye, there is a feeling to it, one that I am familiar with."

"It is peace," she said quietly.

He nodded. "Aye, it is. Felt it whenever we were victorious in a battle during the War. Back at our camps, those who'd survived would sit around the fire, a bottle of mead in hand. There would be no talk, as we all knew what the others were thinking." He exhaled and rubbed his face. "Lost many friends, aye. There was never a real victory."

She made another sound and turned her head when she heard Isben walking past them. Vimund followed her gaze and heaved himself up from the grass.

"We'd best be off. Still have to get to that tree, aye?"

"You go on. I'd like a moment."

He raised a brow. "Some fresh air, eh?"

She chose to give him a wry smile instead of a reply. He shrugged his broad shoulders and followed after Isben and the pilgrim up to the Eldergleam.

"The Eldergleam is protected by her roots," Maurice explained as he and Isben followed the path leading up to the tree. "It's been so long since anyone's actually been near the tree. Of course, there is the fabled Nettlebane that is said to be able to repel the roots and open the path up to the Eldergleam, but—" Maurice almost fainted when he saw Vimund pull the blade out from his pack. "N-N-N-Nettlebane!"

Several of the other travelers turned their heads toward them with shocked expressions. Isben rubbed his brow and accepted the blade from Vimund.

Maurice hurried around Isben to block his way. He outstretched his arms in plea. "You mustn't! To hurt the Eldergleam—even her roots—is a sin! Kynareth will surely take vengeance on you! You must not hurt the tree!"

"Do you see any other way up?" Isben asked. "Listen. This isn't my choice to make. If Nettlebane will make these roots recede, then it sounds like the best option to me. I don't want to disappoint Danica. The woman's been waiting long enough for a solution to the Gildergreen's current state."

"The _Gildergreen?" _Maurice snarled and spat the word as if it was the most sinful curse. "You're helping Danica to cure the _Gildergreen? _It's a shadow of what the Eldergleam is! To hurt something so pure, so beautiful for a little _weed _is disgraceful! You mustn't cut the Eldergleam with Nettlebane! You mustn't!"

"What other choice do I have?"

Maurice bobbed his head up and down and hurried to explain. "I have an idea, but I will only share it if you swear to Kynareth you will not hurt Her tree."

Isben looked at Vimund for advice, but the Nord only stared Maurice down with a grim look.

"Mages and their trickery," he muttered beneath his breath.

Isben huffed and nodded. "I swear upon Kynareth. May She strike me down if I fail to keep this promise."

"Good," Maurice said with a smile.

"But I still have to cut the roots."

Maurice sighed and crossed his arms. "I... I suppose I cannot offer any suggestions to that."

"There's always my axe," Vimund said with a vicious smile.

Maurice blanched and gulped. "Very well. Use Nettlebane. But please," he added, "be gentle. Offer the mercy Kynareth would upon you." He stepped out of Isben's way and watched as the man approached the large roots with Nettlebane held out in his hand. As he brought the blade closer to the roots, they seemed to quiver, as if they could sense its presence.

Just a small tap, and the roots started to curl away from the path, opening it up for them. Isben continued to tap any root in his way, mindful not to harm them, while Vimund and Maurice stayed close by.

Maurice wrapped his arms around himself and murmured prayers to Kynareth for forgiveness. When they reached the top of the cavern, Isben kept his word and sheathed Nettlebane. He looked expectantly at Maurice. The pilgrim bobbed his head up and down and knelt in front of the Eldergleam. It was even more massive up close than Isben thought it would be.

"Kynareth has always helped the Just and True," Maurice said. "She has always been generous to those who need Her guidance." He bent his head and brought his lips to the soil and murmured softly. Isben and Vimund had to strain their ears just to hear him, but they couldn't discern what he said.

Isben blinked, and in that split moment a small sapling sat in front of Maurice that wasn't there before. Maurice looked up and smiled at the sapling before placing a kiss in the soil. "Thank you, Kynareth, Kyne, Goddess of the Wind and Sky." He tore off a length of his robes and wrapped the sapling's roots in the cloth. He presented the small plant to Isben. "Take this to Danica as an exchange for the Gildergreen. A new tree will grow in Whiterun, borne from the Eldergleam and Kynareth's grounds."

Maurice placed the sapling in Isben's hands like a mother putting her babe in its crib. As soon as Isben's fingers made contact with the little tree, he felt something jolt throughout his entire body. He shook the feeling away and took the tree from Maurice. It was a dainty little thing, hardly any leaves on its gangly stem.

"I wish to stay here a while, to pray beneath the Eldergleam's branches and revere Kynareth." Maurice smiled and inclined his head. "I wish you a safe travel back to Whiterun, friend. Please give Danica my regards."

Isben nodded. "Farewell, Maurice. May She keep you."

"And you, Dragonborn."

As he and Vimund walked down the path to retrieve Shêza and see about their journey back to Whiterun, Vimund grunted and shook his head. "Damned mages and their damned manners. I need a cold drink."

Isben rolled his eyes and took in a sharp breath when he saw Shêza. He blinked a few times, dumbfounded, and Vimund looked to see what caught his eye.

"Lass is probably tired after that Dragon. Aye, I don't blame her. I could go for some furs and a bed myself. After my drink, of course."

Isben walked over to her and stood over her dozing form. She looked like something from nature with her arms spread out and pieces of grass in her hair and clothes—as natural as the spriggans that made their homes in trees. Without a crease in her brow and a frown on her face, she looked _safe. _As if she wasn't a person who was likely to rip your tongue out for saying something she didn't approve of.

He knelt and set the sapling beside her as he observed her. Her breaths were deep and even, and he dared to take a closer look. It was then that he saw the exhaustion written all over her face beneath her warpaint. He remembered that she'd spent the prior night keeping watch while they all slept, and he felt guilt rear its ugly head at him. What was worse was that she had fought a Dragon with zero hours of sleep. He wanted to apologize to her, but didn't want to wake her.

He lifted his hand to tuck a lock of hair behind her ear. He yelped when her eyes snapped open and her hand clenched around his wrist. She twisted her hips and in one fluid motion, she had him pinned beneath her with her knife at his throat. Vimund had taken hold of his axe and was on his way toward them, but a quick shake of Isben's head made him stop in his tracks.

A wild look invaded her eyes as she stared him down, her lips turned in a snarl. He blinked at her, startled by her actions and expression, but even more stunned by the sunlight framing her figure and making her hair shine.

His mind took him to an old text he'd read while studying at the University.

"'_And so it is our greatest mystery to discern whether or not Nature, the greatest gift and blessing of Kynareth, is to be Chaotic in its own Right or Beautiful by Her Determination._'"

She recoiled her head and pressed her dagger further into his skin. She blinked and, once realizing who he was, sheathed her dagger and had the decency to sport a sheepish look.

"Stunning, is it not?" he asked.

She snorted and climbed off of him to stalk to the sanctuary's entrance. He got to his feet and picked at pieces of grass clinging to him.

Vimund cleared his throat and sheathed his axe. "Aye. I'll be needing that drink soon. Might I ask?"

Isben shrugged his shoulders. "It's natural for her to be like this time to time. It's what I've gathered from my observations, of course."

"Aye," Vimund said. "Aye."

* * *

Shêza stood outside the sanctuary as she waited for Vimund and that half-elf. She wore a gruesome scowl as she waited—and not very patiently—for them. Frustrated, she shifted on her heels and huffed.

It was then that she caught a whiff of something other than Man or Mer. She took in a deeper inhale and frowned. Curious, she climbed up onto a jutting rock, mindful of the geyser at its base, and sniffed the air. Her eyes widened when she caught the familiar scent of werefolk. She didn't know that they lived _here _of all places, and she hadn't known that they'd been trespassing on their territory. They were lucky that a Brute hadn't shooed them away. Back at her home, Ivor would patrol their lands and make sure they had no unwanted visitors, like a curious tourist or some rubbish. She knew Ivor never hurt outsiders—he took a strange pleasure in frightening them.

But whether or not these werefolk would be as merciful as Ivor, she didn't know.

And she didn't want to find out.

Had Shêza not been sniffing the air, wondering where exactly these werewolves had their den, she never would have smelled the man perched on the Eldergleam Sanctuary's rocks, waiting for Vimund and Isben to exit so that he could pounce.

He hadn't seen her yet, but she saw him. Her eyes narrowed in fury, and she silently crept toward him. When she was a few feet behind him, she made her move. With a screech, she flung herself at him, sending them tumbling down to the sanctuary's entrance. The man's twin blades went flying out of his hands as they collided with the ground. Shêza tried to pin him, but he struggled and fought her tooth and nail. She growled as he grabbed her wrists and kept her from clawing his eyes out. She fought violently to break out of his hold, but he was relentless.

She hissed and renewed her efforts, straining the muscles in her arms to gain the upper hand. He spat at her and tried to twist his legs around hers, but she took the opportunity to slam her knee into his hip. He gasped and she felt his hold slacken the tiniest fraction, but it was all she needed. With a shriek, she grabbed hold of either side of his face and pelted it into the rock beneath him until his head was nothing but a bloody mass of torn skin.

She panted and crawled off of him to catch her breath. After a few gulps of air, she stood and hurried off to find his swords. Once she did, she gave the weapons a sniff and snuffled in anger. They were coated in poisons. She lobbed them into the pools of water, watching with satisfaction as they sank to the bottom of the pools.

"What barbarian would do such a thing? If this was a mage, aye, there will be repercussions. You can count on that."

Shêza swiveled her head when she heard Vimund shout to Isben. She made her way back over to them, and Vimund gave her a suspicious look. "Did you do this?" he demanded. When she nodded, he frowned and adjusted the grip on his axe. "Why?"

Isben placed a hand on his shoulder, hoping to calm the big Nord man. His hand was shrugged off. He ignored the small exchange he and Shêza shared and instead rifled through the corpse's belongings. He opened the bag at his hip. A small amount of coins, a healing potion, and a folded letter. Curious, Isben opened the letter and started to read it.

His brow furrowed and he looked up to see Shêza and Vimund bickering.

"I saved your pathetic hide, you miserable _dog. _I suppose that's all the Companions can breed nowadays."

Vimund's knuckles turned white as he tightened his grip on his weapon. "Don't try my patience, miss. I'm not the one killing innocents!"

"He was hardly innocent," Isben said. He was ignored.

Shêza bared her teeth at Vimund. "You are trying _my _patience, Companion. If I hadn't killed him, the two of you would be dead. I did you both a favor—you should be grateful."

"Oh, and I suppose I should be grateful that you haven't bitten my head off? You rabid bitch, you _killed an innocent!" _

Isben managed to worm his way between the two of them. He held the sapling in one hand and the letter in the other. "You call _this _innocent?" He thrust the letter in Vimund's face, and in a rage, the Nord snatched it from his hands and started to read the paper.

His fury was replaced with concern, and all color in his face had gone. He gave the letter back to Isben, and he offered it to Shêza.

She skimmed it over, not surprised by its contents.

"I won't say anything," Isben said.

Vimund coughed and wore an uncomfortable expression. "Lass, I—"

She shook her head.

Vimund nodded and cleared his throat. "Well, lad. Looks like I was right: people want you gone. And not just a squabbling bard, but the Dark Brotherhood."

"If Shêza could handle them, I'm not too concerned."

"They'll send more once they hear of this," Vimund said sternly. "And not just _more, _but experienced members. They're crafty bastards, they are. Aye. We need a sharper eye out. Let's not be too willing to trust strangers, eh?"

Shêza rolled her eyes. If only he knew.

* * *

They made camp outside of Mixwater Mill again. Vimund had offered to take first watch as a form of apology to Shêza. He also knew that the woman was exhausted and needed her rest. He circled the edge of camp, one hand on his axe as he listened to the forest around them.

Shêza rolled onto her side and curled into a ball. She exhaled and closed her eyes, feeling sleep just a hand's width away from her.

"You don't have a bedroll?"

She could have screamed she was so tired and frustrated. She opened one eye to glare at Isben for disturbing her soon-to-be slumber. But when she saw how haunted he looked and drained, she opted to keep her mouth closed.

He sat on his bedroll and kneaded his forehead and temples. He'd been doing that often as of late.

She shook her head no.

He looked thoughtful for a moment before standing and bringing his bedroll over to her. "You can have mine, if you want. I don't think I'm sleeping tonight. Not with this headache, and certainly not while I know there are assassins out there hunting for me."

Shêza, too tired to reply, merely shook her head again. She inwardly groaned when he started protesting and urging her to accept his bedroll. His words abruptly stopped and he let out a hiss as his headache intensified. He glared at her and spat, "Just take the bedroll, would you!" He swore and started pacing back and forth.

She watched as he practically made a rut in the ground, and without a word, she crawled away from him in search of a quieter place to sleep. She blinked when she saw the sapling nestled between his and Vimund's packs. She inspected the little tree for a moment, unimpressed by its daintiness. He had soaked the cloth around its roots earlier, worried that it would die on them before they reached Whiterun. She hadn't said anything then, as she supposed that since he was an alchemist, he knew how to care for plants better than she did. He knew those things: how to take care of others—

Her brow quirked as she recalled what the pilgrim—she cringed—had said earlier that day.

_Kynareth shows mercy on those who believe in Her and Her gifts. _

Shrugging, and deciding it was worth a try, she scooped the sapling up and returned to where Isben was. He was still pacing and rubbing his head, speaking nonsense to himself. She waited until he had turned toward her before holding the sapling out so that it rested against his forehead. He gasped and took a step back—why, she didn't know—but she matched it.

_Offer the mercy Kynareth would upon you._

Slowly, his nerves calmed and his headache abated. He felt something cool and soothing seep from the sapling into his mind, numbing the headache and hiding Mirmulnir's stare under a veil. Isben felt his entire being relax as Shêza held that sapling to his forehead, and with hands that felt floppy and useless, he took the sapling from her.

"Is it better?" she asked.

"Y-yes." He sighed in relief and closed his eyes. "Much better."

"Good," she spat, catching him off guard. "Now _be quiet _so I can sleep." She huffed and turned on her heel back to where she was originally trying to sleep. She ignored his bedroll as she curled into a ball on the grass and leaves. He felt a bit hurt by her rejection, but was too relieved and too _happy _to give it much thought. He couldn't remember the last time he had been happy. The anger, the frustration, the irritation—_gone. _

All because of a little sapling.

* * *

When Danica learned that they did not retrieve the sap from the Eldergleam, she'd been upset and annoyed at the three of them, particularly at Maurice, who conveniently was not there to experience such an inconvenience—_Damn Breton-mage, _Vimund thought.

But Danica Pure-Spring was an understanding and kind woman of Kynareth, above all else. When Isben explained the sapling to her, she saw it as for what it was: a gift from Kynareth, just as the Gildergreen was.

"If the Gildergreen is truly gone, there is no reason to reject this offering from Her. We will care for this sapling, just as Kynareth has cared for us."

Isben was reluctant to give her the sapling, but he knew he had to. He'd grown fond of it, and not just because it warded off the headaches and Dragon-stares. He'd cared for it, kept it watered and trimmed of any dead leaves, made sure it received the proper amount of sunlight.

And now his efforts were over, his role completed. _Delivery boy._

He sighed when they exited the Temple of Kynareth. He could feel the beginnings of a headache already.

"I suppose it's back to working behind a counter, eh?" Vimund asked with a chuckle.

Isben smiled. "I believe you are right about that—oh, _Gods, _Arcadia!" He slapped his forehead and immediately regretted it when it started pulsing. "I forgot all about the store—she'll skin my hide for sure."

Shêza rolled her eyes as he continued to panic. She suggested forgetting the store and leaving Whiterun, but he'd refused and said that he respected Arcadia too much to be such a scoundrel. _And yet he beds women he is not bonded to. Swine._

And so Isben trudged into Arcadia's Cauldron with his tail between his legs, bracing himself for the lecture he knew he was going to receive. He felt like a prepubescent boy as Arcadia stared him down with the meanest glower in all of Skyrim—the woman's glare could rank up there with Shêza's.

* * *

Vimund let out a hearty laugh as Isben finished reciting Arcadia's emasculating speech. The Nord took another swig from his tankard and wiped his mouth. They decided to dine together at The Bannered Mare to celebrate a job well done. Shêza had declined their offer, saying she had errands to run before the night was over. They didn't argue, but Isben had given her a disappointed look.

"She's making me run deliveries to each of the major cities in the Holds," Isben said with a shake of his head. "I understand being angry at me for foregoing my work to venture off on a quest without telling her, but this is a little too much for a punishment."

Vimund shrugged. "Think of it this way, lad: you'll be able to see all of Skyrim's corners. Well, at least the ones on the surface."

Isben chuckled. "Perhaps. I've always wanted to start a business where I'd cart ingredients and potions to and from the cities. My potions were stocking all of the alchemy stores in the Imperial City, you know."

"And how'd that come to be?"

"Since the University was under Thalmor command, the Thalmor decreed that all wares sold in stores were to be of Aldmeri Dominion origin. I'm no Thalmor—don't look at me like that—but they still forced me to concoct the potions. Want to know how much recognition I received?" He held his hand up in a fist. "That's how much."

Vimund shook his head in disgust. "And the Empire is too lenient to do anything about those Thalmor vermin. This is why Skyrim wants to secede. We're _Nords, _not some fancy froo-froo 'Aldmeri Dominion' fop."

"No argument there. But tell me: is it elves you take issue with, or is it the Thalmor?"

Vimund leaned forward in his seat and set his brow in a frown. "Let me tell you something, aye? I was sweet on an elf once. A fierce, warrior elven lass." His face softened a fraction. "A real tigress, she was. I have nothing against elves, lad. But the Thalmor? Don't even start me on them. Mages? They're nothing but trouble, the lot of them. Talos take them and keep them away from me and the rest of civilization." They finished their meal in silence, both of them too busy pondering their own thoughts to pay the other any mind. It was when Vimund was ready to head back to Jorrvaskr that he broke the silence.

"I almost forgot. Bloody years on me," Vimund added under his breath. He dug through his pack and pulled out a small ornate box. He closed Isben's hands around it. "Open that in privacy, lad. Don't want too many eyes to see it."

"What is it?"

Vimund chuckled and grinned. "A small token of my appreciation. Word of that sapling has already spread throughout the city. Thanks to you, the Companions are starting to see that I _might _have some worth to me after all. Tomorrow, I start my first official assignment that doesn't involve fetching mead."

Isben shook his head. "I can't accept this, Vimund. I haven't exactly been... cooperative lately."

"Aye, and I'm sure you have your reasons. Also hoping that you aren't always so irate. But I certainly don't have any use for this—my Harbinger doesn't, either. Maybe you'll have better luck?" Vimund shrugged and clapped Isben on the shoulder. "Sleep well, lad. I'll be seeing you."

When Isben was alone in his rented room at the inn and made sure his door was securely locked, he sat on his bed and opened the small box. He tilted his head in confusion at the small magenta gem nestled on a tiny pillow. It was beautiful, there was no question about it, but it seemed... incomplete. For it to be part of a pendant would be too lacking. It was too big to have once been set in a ring. Shrugging, he stashed it away in his pack.

He'd hold onto the gem, anyways. If he ever ran into a financial crisis, he could always sell it. He was headed to Riften tomorrow—despite the fact that there were people who wanted the Dragonborn dead—to deliver ingredients, and he'd heard many rumors regarding Riften and her inhabitants. Perhaps he'd be able to make a bit of coin off of the gem.

* * *

Translations:

_Fo: _Frost


	15. Stories of Olde

Skyrim belongs to Bethesda. Any OC/plot twist or idea that you do not recognize belongs to yours truly. Thank you for the feedback, and enjoy!

* * *

"Ivor! Ivor?" Helena scampered throughout the tunnels of her home, popping her head in each individual chamber as she searched for her cousin. In her small hands she struggled to hold onto a large, worn book that she'd taken from her father's chambers. She huffed and sniffled. Taking a deep breath, she threw her head back and screamed, "IVOR!"

Several of her family members came over to her and knelt by her, offering small words of comfort to placate her. They helped her set the book down, and she rubbed her nose with a tiny fist. "I c-can't find Ivor," she sniffed. Tears threatened to fall from her eyes and her cheeks became red and puffy. A servant hurried off to find the Alpha's nephew.

He was found fletching arrows in Shêza's furs, littering them with tiny splinters of wood that he carved. The servant quickly told him that Helena wanted him, and without a word, he stormed out of Shêza's quarters.

Helena smiled when she spotted him through the crowd of her family members. They all bowed their heads out of respect for him, several females eying him up and down appreciatively, and moved to the side. He stood in front of Helena and pat her head when she wrapped her arms around his legs.

"Ivor!" she beamed. She sniffed once more and looked up at him. "Can you read to me tonight? Father and Shêza are out hunting together, and I need someone to read to me! And you give the characters voices!"

Ivor's blood boiled and he growled low in his throat. Shêzanaré and Garald had gone off for a hunt, not even thinking to invite him—_him, _a seasoned hunter! He'd been trying to take his mind off of it, but it was the main talk everywhere he went, as all of his pack wanted to know what furs they would bring back as trophies.

And now, again, _another _reminder. He narrowed his eyes as Helena continued to stare at him pleadingly, and only when her bottom lip began trembling did he sigh and nod his head in surrender. She grinned as he picked her up in one hand and her children's storybook in the other. She nuzzled her head in his neck. "Thank you, Ivor."

He nodded and nuzzled her head back. "Does Dagfinn want to hear the stories too?"

"No," she shook her head. "He's sleeping already." He carried her to his chambers and set her down in the furs. She snuggled into his side as he tucked the furs around her. She rested her head on his chest and he cracked open the book.

"Which story?"

"Fenrisulfr."

He smiled and shook his head in good humor. "Your Father's told you that story hundreds of times."

"But you know the voices for that one. And I like Fenrisulfr." She giggled when he prodded her in the side, but he turned to the page of Fenrisulfr anyways. The book was so old that some of the words were faded and the parchment had yellowed with time. Nevertheless, he gave life to the characters with growls and deep voices, making Helena giggle more and snuggle further into him. He ended up reading the story twice to her, as she begged him with more puppy eyes. It was only when he was halfway through the second time did her eyes grow heavy and eventually shut as sleep blanketed her.

He set the book aside and absently smoothed the hair on the crown of her head as he waited for sleep to claim him. His eyes were finally drooping closed when he heard someone softly push the divider aside and let themselves into his chambers.

He snapped his gaze up but relaxed when he saw it was only Petra. Among the pile of garments she carried, his white fox pelt was there, now clean and freshly groomed to fluff the fur. The rest of the hunters had to wait until the morning to receive their brushed pelts, but she always made sure she returned his before the others'.

Ivor supposed being the Alpha's nephew had some perks and privileges.

"Forgive me," she murmured with a bow of her head. "I did not mean to disturb you, Brute Ivor."

He cracked his neck, making sure not to wake Helena, and stood up from the furs. "Are you still washing?"

"Yes, Brute Ivor."

He made quick work of the ties on his vest and pulled the garment off, then slid his trousers down and exchanged them for his fox pelt. "By morning. I don't want to wake without them. I'm leading the morning hunt tomorrow."

She nodded and took the clothes from him, keeping her eyes averted from his nude flesh. "Of course, Brute Ivor." That meant that after the hunt, he'd want a massage for his shoulders. He'd probably seek her out for a back rub, as he insisted the other servants either missed several knots or squeezed his skin.

But no, not Petra. She took her time and worked every knot loose. Or so she supposed, as he never complimented her on that before.

Or on anything.

She inclined her head and made to leave his quarters, but stopped mid-step. She waited until he acknowledged her again—with a blank look, no less.

She cleared her throat and adjusted the folded garments in her arms. "If you do not mind me asking, Brute Ivor, have you seen Shêzanaré?"

He bristled as he was once _again _reminded why Shêzanaré was absent from their home. He scoffed and raised his chin. "Haven't you heard?"

She shook her head. "My place in the pack has me at work with hardly a moment to myself." When Ivor narrowed his eyes, she hurried to clarify. "I enjoy my work—the children keep me company and our family appreciates my work, and—" She cut herself off when he sported a bored look, and she suspected he wasn't paying attention anymore. She cleared her throat. "I-I wanted to ask Shêzanaré to pick up a couple of things for me in Whiterun." She looked away from him and hung her head.

It was well known that Shêza was the only one of their pack that made associations with Man and Mer—as rare as those associations were. His pack members would usually give her a small list of goods to purchase in Whiterun that couldn't be found in the forests of Riverwood. He frowned upon those interactions and was against any association with the outside world, but Petra was one of those members who took advantage of the opportunity.

Petra shifted on her feet when she saw a glare form in his brow. "I-I just wanted another blank book and charcoal, nothing too expensive—"

"Why not use the cave walls as the others do? Why the need for parchment and charcoal?"

"I find the cave walls inadequate, Brute Ivor. Rock is hard to draw with compared to charcoal." She saw his glare intensify just that much.

"Why do you not show the others your drawings? If you're so set on betraying our ways, you might as well have the gall to _show _us your art."

She lowered her eyes and creased her brow. "They're not that significant; just doodles, Brute Ivor. A foolish female's equally foolish imagination, nothing more."

"If they're nothing to you, end the habit and leave the outside world be. Don't hang onto foolish sentiments that you pretend to value. You are a servant; it's better that way."

She bowed but righted herself when several garments began to slip from her arms. She quickly caught them, her cheeks flushing when she noticed Ivor looked unimpressed. "O-of course, Brute Ivor. You are right. I-I will see to destroying them." She gave a sloppy bow and stammered, "Good sleep to you, Brute Ivor," before making her escape out of his quarters.

When she reached the servant's den, a small chamber that all of the Hedera Black-Coats servants shared, she carefully made her way over to her modest pile of furs that weren't nearly as extravagant as Ivor's. In such a small space, privacy was a difficult thing to come by, including the privacy of property. She pulled out a loose stone from the floor, revealing a worn bound journal, and retrieved it from its hiding spot. She flipped through the pages and smiled a sad grin.

She'd managed to capture his features to the tiniest detail. She was never satisfied with her drawings, whether they were still-lives or not, unless they resembled him completely.

Petra sighed and brushed back a lock of her hair. _Foolish imagination, indeed. _She shook her head and placed her journal back in its secret spot and dusted her humble dress off. There was still much work to be done, even if the rest of the pack was asleep.

* * *

It was bright and early when Isben managed to pull himself out of bed and drag his feet to Whiterun's stables. His muscles ached something terrible, and he could easily sleep for another day, but he didn't want to risk upsetting Arcadia further, if that was even possible.

He watched as several of the guards helped load the carriage with boxes filled with herbs and potions. He yawned and offered his assistance whenever possible and even tried to pay the men for their help, but he was refused. Apparently Arcadia had handled all of the expenses already.

He pat the horses of his team and looked up when one of them whickered nervously and stamped its hoof. He offered a sleepy grin to Shêza as she stood in front of him, a slight frown on her brow. Despite her facial expression, she looked well rested; there was no tension in her shoulders and there was a bright spark in her eyes.

"Morning," he said, followed by a yawn. When she only replied with a grunt, he continued, "I'm off to Riften today. Have to deliver some alchemical supplies there. I should be gone at most a week. I have to make the most out of the trip, you know. Might as well."

She quirked an eyebrow at this news. "Riften? City of Thieves?"

He waved his hand at her. "It can't be all that. Every city has thieves, beggars, whores. Shouldn't be too different than Whiterun, yes?"

"Not every city's populace consists only of thieves, beggars, and whores," she said. She padded over to the carriage and gave it a lookover before hopping in the back. She moved crates here and there to make herself comfortable.

He blinked and leaned against the side of the carriage to give her an incredulous look. "You want to come with me?"

"Who else will watch your hide?"

He wore a lopsided grin and drummed his fingers together. "You watch my hide now, do you?"

She tilted her head to the side and scrutinized him, wary of elven trickery.

"Is it a nice hide to look at?" he asked with a laugh.

She snorted and crossed her arms. "Hardly anything special. Oxen are more appealing than your girlish figure."

"Fair lady, you wound me," he chuckled and grasped his chest in mock offense. He took his place at the front of the carriage and grabbed the reins. "Mind you, I haven't conducted a carriage in quite some time. Might be a bumpy ride back there."

Shêza harrumphed and was jostled as he tapped the reins against his team's flanks. She hissed when he urged them into a fast trot. "Is there anything you're good at?"

"Alchemy."

"Besides the obvious."

"Oh, so you're observing my skills? Shêzanaré, you are overwhelming me with surprises. I'm afraid I can't take much more of them. It's the Cosmos Theory, I swear it."

She rolled her eyes and crossed her ankles. "You are in a light mood today," she noted quietly.

"I am," he agreed. "But I'm very tired. Can you look at my map and find some settlements?" He tossed his pack over his shoulder and smiled when he heard her hiss as it landed on her. He hummed innocently when she spat and growled at him.

She dug through his pack with a huff and pulled out his map. She leaned over the back of the carriage to show it to him. "We're moving much faster than we were on foot," Isben said. "I don't want to spend another night near Mixwater Mill—not with assassins trying to schedule me. What's this?" He pointed at a small village nestled in a mountain's side.

"Ivarstead," Shêza said after a moment. "A quiet village." She said nothing about High Hrothgar standing proudly beside it.

"We'll probably be the most excitement they'd had in weeks," he snorted. "Ah well. To Ivarstead it is. After that, we'll just follow that river," he ran his finger along the map, "to Riften. Two day journey there, a couple of days spent selling these wares, one day to explore the city, and two days back to Whiterun. Total: seven days."

"Unless you make us lost," she commented with a sneer. "Then it'll be two weeks."

"I am _not _going to make us lost. I have a map and an excellent sense of direction."

"Which direction is your face? Up or down?"

"Up." He rolled his eyes but couldn't help but to smile.

"Could have fooled me."

* * *

After passing through Riverwood and making a detour around Helgen that almost cost them a wheel, the weather took a turn for the worst. Snowflakes started falling from the sky, barely even a flurry, but this gradually developed into a steady fall. Isben had thought to pack cloaks, and he and Shêza bundled up as the wind started gusting.

"It's hard to see," Isben shouted over the roar of the wind. He had his cloak pulled up to his nose, but even that didn't prevent his nostrils from freezing.

Shêza climbed out of the back of the carriage to sit next to him. She had her cloak wrapped snugly around herself. She wished she'd brought her furs or that shawl Petra made for her last winter. Cloaks were useful on cold nights, but they hardly offered any protection against snow when it melted. "Follow the cobbles," she called back.

He bobbed his head and urged the horses onward. "How far is Ivarstead?"

"Too far away," she snorted.

He grunted and shook his head. He pulled back on the reins when his team started neighing in alarm and trying to rear on their hind legs. "Whoa! Whoa!"

Shêza had her bow out in an instant as she smelled blood in the air. She growled and leapt from the carriage to stand beside the horses. She hissed at them, and they reluctantly quieted down. They stamped their hooves nervously and rolled their eyes back into their heads.

She scanned her surroundings for any trace of life. The snow made seeing nearly impossible, and she hesitantly pressed forward. She crouched to the ground when she saw a fallen tree blocking the road with a destroyed cart beside it. Corpses littered the ground and the cart, and she shook her head in anger.

"Divines have mercy," Isben breathed beside her. She looked at him for a brief moment before turning her attention away. He felt his stomach flip at the sight of the dead Khajiits.

"This is a trap," she murmured.

"No doubt about that. But where are the ones responsible?" He drew his bow and nocked an arrow as his eyes darted from tree to tree.

It was no surprise that Shêza spotted them first. "One is on that rock." She gestured with a shake of her head to the bandit. "The others are behind the trees. The one on the rock is an archer." She paused as she struggled to see through the storm. "And they know we're here."

"Fantastic," Isben sighed. "Any other encouraging news?"

"One has a warhammer."

"Wish we brought Vimund," Isben said to himself.

"The archer goes first." She pulled her bow back and lined her shot up. She released her arrow, the storm muffling the _twang _of her bowstring. A cry sounded as the arrow struck the bandit neatly in his chest, and Isben heard the clank of armor and weapons as the other bandits spread out to search for them.

"Spread out," she said, "but stay in sight." Isben nodded and did as he was told and walked right into a bandit. They both gasped in surprise, but it was the bandit that recovered from the shock first. He swung his sword at Isben, and without thinking, he brought his bow up to defend himself. He felt the force of the impact travel up his arm, and his arm muscles ached. The sword took out a good chunk of his bow, but the wood somehow managed to hold.

Shêza snarled and readied an arrow to help the twatty half-elf, but two other bandits had spotted her. They shouted and charged at her, and she had no choice but to redirect her arrow at them. It caught one of the bandits in the leg, slowing him down for her, but this seemed to only enrage the other one.

"Come on, you coward! What, you can only fight from a distance?" he taunted. He swung at her with his mace, and she sidestepped the swing. She smacked her bow against the backs of his calves, and he cried out as he was brought to the ground. She unsheathed her knife and slit his throat and turned around just in time to block an incoming blow from the other bandit.

Isben wanted to use his sword, but the bandit was not giving him a chance. They were locked in a stance, the bandit's sword slowly crushing Isben's bow as they fought for the upper hand. The bandit shifted his weight to have an opening at him, but Isben matched him. With a smirk, the bandit spat in Isben's face and stepped on his foot when he yelled in surprise and took a step back.

He landed on his rear, caught off balance, and the bandit knocked his bow from his hands.

"I can't wait to count out your coin," the bandit sneered. He brought his blade up and would have brought it down, but _Fus _saw to him. The bandit staggered backward, giving Isben enough time to climb to his feet and wield his sword.

Isben faltered once the point of his sword was at the bandit's neck. He could easily kill the man—the bandit even knew this—but he would be killing a _person. _It was different than killing a Dragon. This person had friends, family—

The bandit knocked Isben's blade aside and sliced him with his own sword. Isben cried out as red spurted out from the wound. Isben clutched his arm, trying to stem the flow, and glared at the bandit when he looked ready to finish him off.

An arrow whizzed by his ear, planting itself in the bandit's forehead. Isben turned around to nod his thanks to Shêza, but he frowned in confusion when he saw she didn't even have her bow drawn. Shaking his head, he picked up his sword and hurried to her just as she killed another bandit.

"Is that all of them?" he panted.

Shêza sniffed the air and frowned when she smelled his blood. She blinked at the growing red stain on his sleeve and ripped off a length of her cloak to tie it around his wound. "We still haven't dealt with Warhammer."

"Ah, yes. How could I have forgotten about him?" They made their way further up the slope and past the fallen tree to search for the last bandit. When they found him, Isben raised an eyebrow. The bandit was face-down in a pool of blood with multiple arrows piercing through his steel armor. Isben covered his mouth and held back a gag, and Shêza took this opportunity to sneak away into the trees.

She could barely make out his figure in the snow and wind, but when she saw him, she nodded at him. "Thank you, cousin."

Ivor had furs covering his arms, chest, and legs, and seemed indifferent to the storm around them. "Be more alert, Shêzanaré. One of them almost had him."

She narrowed her eyes at him. "It's always something, is it not? Haven't you anything else to do? Such as licking my father's feet?"

"I cannot go any farther," Ivor said, ignoring her quip. "You are almost out of Whiterun Hold, and I cannot pass the border. Keep him well and safe, Shêzanaré." He made to vanish into the woods, but stopped and looked back at her. "This is from the morning meal." He handed her a wrapped package, and Shêza's mouth watered when she caught a whiff of the tender meat inside of it. "And Petra would like some parchment and charcoal for her... _art." _He waved his hand in the air and seemed disgusted at the idea.

She ducked her head and softened her expression. "Tell her I'll have them in a week."

He snorted and crossed his arms. "I wish you wouldn't."

She rolled her eyes and shooed him away. "Get you gone, Ivor. Give Nys and Lena my love." He grunted and sprinted into the woods, vanishing in a matter of seconds. Shêza made her way back to Isben and joined him at the carriage. He was trying to calm his team down when they smelled even more blood. After more minutes past without fruitful results, she huffed and pushed him aside. She grabbed one of the horse's bridles and pulled on it so that their foreheads were pressed together.

She growled at the horse and stared into its eyes, and it flicked its ears back and forth nervously. It neighed softly and pawed at the ground, but it and its companion seemed to settle down. Shêza let the bridle go and leapt back into the carriage.

"We should move on," she said. Isben stared back and forth between her and the horse and shrugged his shoulders in bewilderment. Nonetheless, he climbed back into the driver's seat and directed the horses around the tree. She showed him the map again. "There is a mountain pass up ahead."

"Why is this a concern?"

"Where there are narrow spaces, there are fools who would take advantage of it."

"Bandits?"

She nodded. "Bandits, thieves, cutthroats. Be wary."

"Nothing we can't handle then." He shot her a smile and grinned wider when her lip twitched. But the moment didn't last long, as she smacked her palm against his forehead.

* * *

When they reached Ivarstead, they were both miserable. They had an encounter with a highwayman in the pass, but made quick work out of him. But the man's blood had stained Isben's cloak, and whenever he would glance at his sleeves, he would gag. What was worse was that his and Shêza's cloaks were sodden and weighed down with the snow.

Ivarstead was a beacon of light in their dreary lives. When he explained to the guards who they were, they checked his cargo to make sure he wasn't bluffing. Finding him to be truthful, they let him into the little village and led him toward the stable where his team would be warm and dry for the night. He paid an extra septim for a stablehand to groom both of the horses. A guard was posted in the barn to make sure no one with a bright idea would try to steal either Isben's horses or his merchandise.

Shêza hadn't entered the barn. She stood outside, her arms crossed as she tried to maintain a semblance of warmth. Isben groaned when he saw her and stood in front of her. "Are you trying to die from illness?"

Her chattering teeth took away some of her ferocity when she replied with a snarl, "The barn's too closed in. Not enough space."

Isben furrowed his brow. "Well, the inn's no different. You're going to have to put up with it, and I'm not about to let you sleep outdoors. Not in this weather."

She huffed but said nothing as they were led toward the inn by another guard. "Nasty night, isn't it?" the guard asked.

Isben chuckled and nodded in agreement. "Aye. Is it too early for this weather?"

"A few weeks too early, stranger. Won't be good for the crops."

He ushered them into the inn and wished them both a warm night. Shêza stood at a distance from the guard, not liking the closed space or the suggestive wink he threw Isben's way. A growl brewed in her throat.

Isben peeled off his cloak and took a seat by the fire pit in the center of the tavern, stretching his hands out to the flames. Shêza stood awkwardly in the doorway, unsure whether to join him or not.

He sighed and rubbed his palms together. There were few patrons, most having taken to their rooms already. One hooded figure sat in the farthest corner of the Vilemyr Inn, nursing a tankard of mead while he kept his eyes on the bard across the room.

Isben watched as the bard, also the serving wench, made her way to the figure.

"I am Lynly, m'lord. How may I be of service? We have rooms and food available for a reasonable price."

The man smiled up at her, a dashing smile that could easily set any woman to swooning (except Shêza; Isben still classified her as non-woman). "Lynly? That's very pretty. I've heard that you are a bard, no?" His accent labeled him as an Imperial.

Lynly ducked her head and smiled. "That is true, m'lord. Would you like to hear me play the lute? It will only cost you five gold."

"Only five gold? I'd easily pay twice that amount to hear you play," he answered.

Lynly beamed at him. "That's very sweet of you to say, m'lord. I'll tell you what: I'll play you my special song. No charge."

His knuckles brushed against her side, close to the curve of her breast, making her gasp. "I certainly know what song I'd like to hear you play, Miss Lynly." He raised an eyebrow suggestively, and she blushed when she comprehended the meaning of his words.

Shêza scowled and made a noise from the back of her throat, catching the proprietor's attention. He stopped cleaning his counter with a rag and followed Shêza's gaze to Lynly and the stranger. The proprietor's face contorted in anger, and he threw his rag down before storming over to them.

"I'd appreciate it if you kept those hands to yourself and stilled that silver tongue of yours, stranger. Now, before you disturb my customers further, _get out _of my inn."

The stranger held his hands up and smiled at the proprietor. "Didn't mean any harm, good sir. Don't mind me, I'll just be going then. Do take care of yourself, Miss Lynly." He gave her a wink and made his way out of the inn and into the storm outside.

After he set Lynly back to work and gave her a few choice words, the proprietor walked over to Isben. "I'm sorry you had to see that. She always finds a way to have trouble come knocking on her door." He crossed his arms and shook his head. "I promised to keep her safe, you see. But where are my manners? I am Wilhelm, owner of Vilemyr Inn. How may I help you? Food? Drink? A place to sleep?"

Isben smiled and waved Shêza over. She begrudgingly joined him, looking as if she wanted to be anywhere but in the tavern. "A drink to warm us and a room would be splendid."

Wilhelm nodded and barked for Lynly to take their wet cloaks. "She can have them dried for you, if you'd like."

"That would be most appreciated," Isben smiled. He handed Lynly his cloak and motioned for Shêza to do the same. She unfastened her cloak with stiff arms and held the garment out for Lynly as if she expected the woman to bite her. Isben stared at Shêza in confusion.

Wilhelm grunted and went behind his counter to ready their drinks. "Are you well?" Isben whispered to Shêza.

"I'm fine," she snapped. When he didn't look the least bit convinced, she sighed and ran her hand through her hair. "This place is... unsettling. Too many walls."

"Well, relax. You're drawing unwanted attention to yourself. Wilhelm's looking at you as if you have five heads." When she continued to stand as still as a statue, he sighed and motioned to the seat next to him. "Here. Just sit and calm down, alright? This is an inn, not an arena."

She wanted to whimper, but she sat in the chair, not at all liking its arms that were on either side of her. It felt confining, and she shifted and squirmed in her seat and almost tipped it over.

Isben placed his hand on the back of her chair to steady it. She glared at him but quieted down when he gave her a look. Wilhelm chose that time to return with their drinks. Isben grinned at him and accepted the mead with thanks, while Shêza quietly took her tankard. She stared at the mug and sniffed it.

"You drink it," Isben said when she continued to stare at her tankard.

"I _know _what it is," she hissed.

He shrugged and took a swig from his mug, already feeling the alcohol burn down to his belly. She hadn't taken even a sip yet but still kept on sniffing it. He blew his lips and tapped her foot with his. "They're looking at you."

"I _know."_

He looked at her thoughtfully for a few moments before daring to ask, "Do you not drink?"

She shook her head 'no.' "Only water and tea on occasion."

"Ah."

"It smells foul. How _can _you drink it?"

"It isn't the best, I'll admit that. But it keeps you warm," he chuckled.

"Hmph." She dared to take a small sip of the mead and gagged. Her face wrinkled and she stuck her tongue out in disgust. "No wonder you are not married. What woman would want to kiss your mouth after drinking this..._ concoction." _She emptied the tankard into the fire pit, the flames hissing and growing for a moment before settling down.

Isben turned in his seat and covered his mouth to hide his grin and only shook his head. His quaking shoulders gave him away, though. He didn't see the corners of her mouth turn up in a small smile.

Lynly walked toward them with worn fur robes in her arms. "I can also clean and dry your clothes if you'd like. You two are brave to have faced that storm, and it would be a shame if you caught cold." She smiled when Isben nodded in agreement. "Your room is just over there." She handed him the robe. "Just leave your wet clothes in front of the door and I'll see to them."

Isben pulled out a few septims from his purse, and when Lynly saw the gold, she shook her hands. "Please, m'lord! There is no need for payment."

"I insist. You're doing us a good favor, my lady." Lynly blushed and accepted the payment with stammered thanks.

Shêza's eyes darted about in panic when Isben stood and started walking toward the room. She shifted uncomfortably in her seat, not at all enjoying being left alone with Lynly eying Isben's backside up and down.

"He is handsome," Lynly said with a purr in her voice.

Shêza wished she hadn't dumped her mead. At least then she'd have something to do. She stared at her tankard and shrugged her shoulders.

"You don't find men like that too often."

Shêza stretched her legs toward the fire and curled her toes. "And what kind of man is he?"

"Kind. Generous. Sociable. Handsome. Although those ears are a bit of a downer, no?"

"There is nothing wrong with his ears—they're _ears. _And judging from what I just witnessed, you're not too picky about what kind of man courts you." She sighed in relief when Lynly glared and stomped away. Isben stepped out of their rented room and motioned for Shêza. She couldn't have leapt out of her seat fast enough. When Lynly gathered Isben's clothes, she gasped when she saw the blood staining his cloak. She immediately sat him down and went to retrieve a small kit with a needle and thread to see to the cut on his arm.

Shêza rolled her eyes and continued into their room.

* * *

As she stripped herself free of her clothes and once Lynly was done patching him up, Isben leaned against the counter, engaged in conversation with Wilhelm.

"I'm a bit glad for this storm, stranger. The snow's keeping everyone inside and safe from the Barrow."

"Barrow? What Barrow?"

Wilhelm coughed and looked uneasy. "There's a Barrow on the far side of the village. Mind you, you'd best keep away from there if you value your safety. It's haunted." He glanced at Lynly and dropped his voice. "Lynly claims she's seen ghosts coming in and out of the Barrow, and I believe her. She was never one to tell a lie."

"Why aren't the guards doing anything?"

Wilhelm shrugged and swept his counter down. "They think we're making up stories and pulling their legs. Hmph. As long as they're paid and have mead in their bellies, they're content to sit around on their backsides."

"Seems like a waste," Isben said in sympathy.

"Aye, it is. They haven't seen the ghosts for themselves, so they think we villagers are losing our minds."

"What if someone were to investigate the Barrow?"

Wilhelm quirked a brow and sized Isben up and down. "You don't seem the type, stranger. It's dangerous in there."

"I can handle myself just fine."

Wilhelm seemed dubious. "If you say so. But I wouldn't want anyone setting foot in there even if they volunteered."

The conversation quickly veered away from the Barrow on to a more pleasant subject, but Isben's thoughts were still on the ghosts that haunted Ivarstead. Maybe not now, but on their way back from Riften, he and Shêza would have to dive into the ruins and help the village out in any way that they could.

* * *

"You know," Isben said as he laid down in his bed and folded his arms behind his head, "I've never traveled a whole lot while in Cyrodiil. I stayed in the University, right where the Thalmor wanted me so they could keep a close eye on my work. Maybe that's why I'm astounded that you are sleeping on the floor and not in your bed—haven't seen the world enough to know that it's customary."

Shêza hissed at him and made herself comfortable in her furs on the floor. "I don't like beds."

He snorted and propped himself up on his elbow to look at her. "You don't drink mead, you don't like beds—who's the abnormal one, now? I'm beginning to feel better about myself. Cosmos, cosmos."

She sniffed and turned so her back was to him. "You're a fool."

"You're a milk-drinker."

She whipped her head over her shoulder to glare at him. "_Baby."_

"Rabid animal," he sneered back. When her expression fell, he sighed and stumbled for an apology. She narrowed her eyes at him in warning, and he snapped his mouth shut.

He exhaled and stared up at the ceiling. "Good night," he said after a lengthy silence past between them.

She didn't reply.

* * *

**Author Questions:**

**So, how bout Ivor? Thoughts on him?**


	16. Backtrack

Skyrim belongs to Bethesda, but any OC/plot twist or idea that you do not recognize belongs to me! This chapter is the longest one yet. I didn't want to make a new chapter with the end content as the beginning paragraphs, so here you go. Thank you for all feedback! Enjoy!

* * *

Ivor moved through the forests of Riverwood, not even disturbing fallen branches and leaves as he made his way toward the river. Early rays of sunlight filtered through the trees, bathing the forest in oranges and reds as he approached the riverbank. Yesterday's morning hunt had been a messy one: after chasing the elk, a younger hunter shot it at too close of a range, resulting in Ivor having his leather armor stained with its blood. It wasn't too much of a problem, but the blood made the leather stick to his skin uncomfortably.

Which was why he'd given his leathers to Petra so that she could clean them. But that was an hour ago, and he hadn't seen hide nor tail of her. He knew that she'd be awake, even at this ungodly hour, but he couldn't find her anywhere in their home. Helena was still asleep, and the two were nearly inseparable.

He caught a whiff of mountain flowers and paused to enjoy the scent. He particularly liked how the red ones smelled—sparingly, of course. The servants used crushed mountain flowers as a soap to clean with, and they always had an overhanging cloud of _mountain flower _about them. Even the clothes they cleaned were drenched in the smell. He suspected it was because the servants didn't rinse them out thoroughly enough.

But Petra only had traces of mountain flower around her, not the gag-worthy _stench _like the other servants. Petra was thorough through and through—a valuable servant, indeed.

Ivor raised an eyebrow when he saw her sitting at the river's edge, a pestle and mortar in hand as she ground more of the flowers into a pulp. He noted the piles of dirty and clean laundry beside her.

Petra hummed to herself as she ground the herbs. It was barely sun-up, and she felt like napping until noon, but she still had laundry to clean, tears to mend, meals to prepare—

She gasped and jumped when she noticed the presence next to her. Her mortar went flying out of her hands and landed in the river, and she gripped the pestle in a pathetic semblance of defense. She gasped again when she recognized the figure leaping into the river to retrieve her bowl.

Her cheeks flushed in embarrassment. "B-Brute Ivor!" she stammered from her place along the bank. She chewed on her lip when he swam back with the bowl clutched in his hands. He heaved himself onto the bank and pushed the bowl to her feet. Whatever soap she'd made was lost in the river's waters.

He wiped his face on his arm and rubbed his eyes. Petra ducked her head and lowered her eyes. "M-my apologies, Brute Ivor. You s-startled me."

"Evidently." He stood and shook his vest out. Water droplets sprang from his vest, some hitting her feet. He furrowed his brow when he noticed her still wielding her pestle like a weapon. Her blush traveled to her ears and neck, and she quickly dropped the pestle. She nervously tugged on her fingers beneath his scrutiny. With him towering over her, she felt even smaller than she already was.

Ivor sighed and nudged the mortar with his foot. "You've no more flowers?"

"N-no, Brute Ivor. I'll have to pick some more—" She snapped her jaw up when he walked back into the forest. Unsure whether to follow him or not, Petra stood in place, wringing her hands together. It was a short while before he returned, but he had his hands full of picked red mountain flowers. Her eyes widened at the sheer amount, and he spread them out by her laundry.

"Are these sufficient?"

Petra nodded her head up and down, unable to form words. She knelt and started to crush them in her mortar, aware of Ivor watching her work. She hummed, trying to distract herself from his piercing gaze.

"Did you sleep well, Brute Ivor?"

"Well enough."

She glanced up at the sky. "The sun's almost up. Should you not be preparing for the morning hunt?"

"Trying to get rid of me, Petra?"

"N-no," she stammered, blushing to the roots of her hair. "I-it was an innocent question, Brute Ivor."

"As was mine." He shrugged out of his vest and pulled his trousers down, then laid down on his back and stretched his arms out. He winced when he felt a knot in his shoulder.

"Do you wish me to wash those as well?"

He murmured a 'yes' and sighed in contentment when the sun shined down on him. He made small whimpers as he enjoyed his sunbath.

Petra wiped her brow and brushed a lock of hair out of her eyes. She rummaged through the pile of laundry, pulled out his leather greaves and arm-guard, and saw to cleaning them. "The hunt will begin soon," she said quietly as she scrubbed the leather down.

"Let Askel lead, then. He knows how to."

She hummed. "Askel is a fine hunter," she said. He opened one eye to glare at her. "He is as silent as a shadow while stalking his prey."

"He does not know how to kill mammoth," Ivor said with a small sneer.

Petra shifted uncomfortably. "It was not my intention to upset you, Brute Ivor. He is not as talented as you are, that is certain."

Ivor settled back onto the grass and uttered a small hiss when something pinched in his shoulder again. "No, he is not, and don't make that mistake again, Petra."

"Y-yes, Brute Ivor." She finished scrubbing his arm-guard clean of blood and pushed it toward him, keeping her eyes averted. "Alpha Garald should feel honored having a nephew such as yourself."

He let out a _hmph _and frowned. He grit his teeth together when his back protested again. It was one of the many setbacks of an archer—back aches, sore arms, dried hands, calloused fingers, locked palms. "Petra?"

"Yes, Brute Ivor?" She didn't look up from her work, but turned her head in his direction.

He cleared his throat and looked up at the trees. "Could you..."

Petra stopped cleaning his greaves and glanced at her pile of laundry. She still had yesterday's to finish. She sighed and set her pestle and mortar down. She supposed Helena could help her when she woke up.

Ivor rolled onto his stomach, lying prone and still. He sighed, and the crease in his brow smoothed over as Petra started by massaging his palms, eventually making her way up his arms to his shoulders.

* * *

Shêza awoke to the smell of herbs and to the sound of the door creaking open. She remained still and feigned sleep until she sniffed the familiar scent of Isben. Curious, she opened her eyes and sat up in her furs. She wasn't used to others waking up before her, nor was she accustomed to not hearing them wake beside her.

Isben set the small kettle down on his bedside table. He hummed tunelessly to himself but stopped when he noticed Shêza looking at him. He smiled a tired grin at her. "Morning."

She grunted in response and watched as he poured out two mugs. He knelt beside her and held out one of the mugs for her. "All Wilhelm had was nettle. I'm not sure if you like nettle, but it's tea."

She accepted the mug and closed her eyes from the feel of the warm cup. She took a sip and sighed in contentment. "It's fine."

He pulled over a chair and straddled the back of it, resting his chin on his crossed arms. "It's still snowing, but it's not as bad as yesterday. The horses are all tacked and groomed, so whenever we're ready, we can be on with our way." He drummed his fingers together. "The bread here's a bit stale, but it's still breakfast, I suppose. Need a lot of drink to wash it down."

Shêza nodded and placed her mug down. She went through her pack and pulled out the wrapped meat Ivor had given her the day before. She peeled away the cloth and held it out to him. Isben raised an eyebrow and took one of the pieces of meat. "It's delicious," he said after he took a bite. "What is it?"

"Bear," she said. Ivor had a tooth for bear meat, and he made it his mission to always have a supply at hand.

"It's very tender. Thank you."

She chewed on a piece and grunted. They finished the meat in silence, and afterward, Isben smiled and headed toward the door. "Lynly cleaned your clothes. I'll leave you to it." He closed the door behind him, leaving Shêza to her tea and garments.

* * *

"Be careful out there, stranger. The road is a dangerous place, especially with those damned Dragons flying about," Wilhelm said as he helped Isben make sure all was in order with his wagon. Shêza was already lounging in the back of the cart, idly listening in to their conversation.

"Many thanks, Wilhelm," Isben said. He clapped the man on the arm and turned his attention to the Vilemyr Inn's bard. "And to you as well, Lynly. Keep safe."

She smiled and jutted her hip out, making sure his eyes traced the curve of her hip. "Aye. Safe travels to you. Perhaps if you ever find yourself in Ivarstead again, I can play you a song or two?"

Shêza snorted.

He inclined his head. "It would be a pleasure, Miss Lynly." He climbed into the driver's seat and flicked the reins. "Farewell!" He directed his team down Ivarstead's slopes and back onto the cobbled roads. He sighed when the sounds of the village faded and he was left with the sounds of the river to his left, the birds chirping, and the creaks of his carriage.

"The snow's lighter down here," he said. "Skyrim's climates are very strange."

Shêza stretched her legs out and cracked her back.

"In the Imperial City, we had all four seasons, but our winters were very mild. I remember how my students pleaded with me to cancel classes—actually, they threatened to tell my Thalmor supervisor."

"The same students who stuck Falmer ears on your snowmen?"

"Yes," he laughed. "I let them have the day to themselves, and they would barrel their way outside and frolic in the snow. You'd think they were little children with how they behaved. Know what I think?"

"No, I don't."

He snorted and shook his head. "I think they were miserable. They all had the Thalmor breathing down their backs, expecting their utmost best behavior. They never had time to be children, and whenever the opportunity presented itself, Divines, they were _children." _

_ "_Leeches. The Thalmor ruin everything they touch, even children.

"The Thalmor are elite elves, or so they claim. Discipline is necessary to boast such a title." Isben steered his team away from the rocks protruding from the road.

"You defend them? They kept you as a prisoner in your home, watching you as if they were there first. And now they are here, in Skyrim, trying to control the Nords."

"Not all Thalmor are here. I imagine there are some that don't even _like _being Thalmor."

Shêza barked a laugh and bared her teeth. "Yes, I suppose there are Thalmor that don't like being drunk off the power and tyranny they so generously lavish. Rubbish."

Isben frowned and might have flicked the reins against his team a little too hard. "That's a very judgmental thing to say."

"They are vermin, and anyone associated with them—rank, blood, even an acquaintance—is just the same."

Isben's knuckles were white as chalk, his eyes narrowed, and his lips pursed. "Do you truly believe that?" he asked so quietly she had to strain her ears to hear him.

"Yes. Ask any true-blooded Nord, and they will tell you the same."

"My mother was a Thalmor," Isben whispered. Shêza's eyes became as round as saucers. "I suppose that makes me not only a fool, but vermin as well."

She turned around to stare at the back of his head, an incredulous expression on her face. She swallowed and composed herself. "Yes. I believe it does."

The chirping birds no longer sounded so sweet; he felt as if they were mocking him. The rushing water only grated on his nerves and made him want to scream. The creaks his wagon made had him yearning to abandon it and Shêza.

And Mirmulnir stared at him, amusement in the Dragon's orange gaze.

He stopped the wagon some time later by the river for a small rest. Shêza leapt out of the wagon to stretch her legs and to put some distance between herself and the Thalmor-spawn. Isben knelt by the river's edge and splashed water on his face and through his hair, trying to collect himself. He rubbed his eyes and sighed.

"We're halfway there," he said and pulled himself back in front of the carriage. "Should be there before evening if we're lucky."

"There is no luck to be had with a _Thalmor," _she spat.

"We mock what we do not understand."

"There is a difference between mockery and truth, Mer."

Isben pressed his lips into a thin line and ignored her jab.

* * *

The forest Riften was located in was nothing like the forests of Riverwood. More than once, Isben wanted to scurry off and scrape a fungus sample from the white birch trees or pluck mountain flowers from the sides of the road. He sighed, wishing he didn't have a deadline, and wishing more than ever that Shêza would _stop _glaring at him like he had some sort of communicable illness. Her growls were a constant sound, and he could feel a headache gnawing at his skull like a rabid dog with a bone.

He tugged on the reins when he caught sight of a fortress a little ways ahead of them. "Whoa," he murmured to his team. The horses flicked their ears back and forth and stomped their hooves.

Shêza gave him an annoyed look. "Why are we stopping?"

"This looks like bandit territory to me," he said. "Why would the guards allow a fortress in the middle of the road? Is security that lacking?"

She rolled her eyes and crossed her arms. "We can always go around the fortress."

"And let some other hapless traveler traipse right into a bandit fort?"

"That's their problem, not ours."

He clicked his tongue in disgust and directed his team into the forest. "You have very little care for others."

"And this is coming from a Thalmor?"

He brought his team to a sudden stop and turned around to glare daggers sat her. "I am _not _a Thalmor. I said my _mother _was one. Put aside your prejudice to understand that for two seconds, would you?"

"And how _lovely _it is to know how Mommy Dearest raised you. Probably wanted you to be just like her and terrorize everyone _not _part of the Aldmeri Dominion."

"And what of you? Did your mother raise you to be like this? Cold, unfeeling, and disinclined to open your damn eyes to see what's in front of you?" He muttered beneath his breath and leapt down from the driver's seat and stalked away.

She hissed at his back and felt her gums begin to ache as her wereblood howled in outrage. "How _dare _you show your back to me!"

"Keep talking and I'll show you my bare arse too, you hellion."

She followed after him and spat at the back of his head. She wanted to rip the little fool's throat out and feed his corpse to dogs she was so enraged! When she saw where he was headed, she let out a laugh and sneered at him. "Barging through the front door? Yes, you're bound to be victorious against a fortress of bandits." When he didn't reply, she added, "It must be the Thalmor in you: so arrogant to think that everyone will just part ways for you."

He whirled on his heel so that they were nose to nose. She growled a warning at him. "If you're so intent on mocking me," he snarled, "then why even follow me? Go back to wherever in Oblivion you came from! You think I need some rabid harpy biting at my heels? Begone and _stay _gone!" He waved his hand in the air and cursed as he stomped away from her.

She stood rooted in place, staring at his back and willing him to fall over dead. She clenched her hands into fists, the beginnings of her claws digging into her palms. She growled—she didn't know what to do. Part of her wanted to leave the damned elf to those bandits, but the other part refused.

The other part kept listening to Ivor's words over and over again, like a song gone awry.

_Keep the family safe at all times._

She snarled and bared her teeth at his back before following him, but at a distance.

"I said _go away," _he said without turning around.

"I heard you."

"But you didn't listen. Why, is it so entertaining to ridicule me for something I have no control over?"

She chose to growl even louder.

"Bitch," he said under his breath. Her blood pounded in her veins, and she had to smother the urge to kill him where he stood with her bare hands.

Once the fortress was within range, he wielded his bow and nocked an arrow, aiming for the bandit patrolling the ramparts. Though Shêza was as quiet as a mime, he could only imagine the mocking look on her face. But Mirmulnir's laughing eyes were much clearer in mind than Shêza's.

Before he could align his arrow properly, he released his shot and closed his eyes when he heard his arrow strike the stone of the fortress.

Shêza shook her head, foam practically frothing at her mouth, and hissed, "Oh, _now _you choose to miss? Hand-holding baby." She fired an arrow, and he wasn't surprised when it struck the bandit in the neck. He huffed and readied another arrow. His aim was poor; his arms shook like a tree in the wind. His shot went wide, missing the bandit charging right at them.

Shêza's arrow hit the man in the knee, slowing him down and buying Isben more time. An arrow landed at his feet, and he looked up to see an archer taking aim on the fortress' tower. He yelped and stepped to the side when the archer fired another arrow.

"Can you hit him from here?" he shouted to Shêza.

"Busy with this one, whelp," she snarled. She charged the bandit she shot and brought him to the ground, hacking at him with her dagger and piercing through his heavy armor. While she dispatched of the bandit, she left Isben facing the archer on the tower—the archer with much better accuracy than Isben.

His scream had Shêza snap her head up, and she felt her heart beat erratically like a war drum when she saw him crumple to the ground, two arrows sticking out of his calf. She wasted no time nocking an arrow and sending it to the archer. His body soon fell off the side of the tower, arrows embedded in his chest and neck.

She was at his side in an instant, her eyes darting back and forth between his leg and his face that had gone white as a sheet.

"D-don't touch it!" he screeched when she grabbed hold of one of the arrows.

"It has to come out—_hey!" _She smacked his face when his head fell backward and eyes closed. She growled and scrunched his face up with one hand. "You—! Now is not the time to die on me, you fool!" She smacked him again, and when he didn't move, she scrambled over him and sprinted back to the cart, ignoring the nervous neighs of his spooked team.

She tore through the crates, ripping out the hay that the potions were nestled in. She stared at the potions, not knowing what they did and not having the time to read their backs. She knew that blue meant magicka, green meant stamina and endurance, and red—

Shêza grabbed the biggest red bottle and darted back to Isben. She snapped the heads off of the arrows and, bracing one hand against his leg, tore the shafts out. He screamed and sat himself up to stare in horror at the blood gushing out of him. She pressed her hands against the punctures and motioned toward the bottle. "Drink it, already!"

He nodded his head dumbly and popped the cork off of the bottle. He was too shocked and shaky to be aware of the potion's bitter and foul taste, but his stomach had other plans.

Shêza clamped her hand over his mouth when he made to vomit. "You drink _all _of it, whelp." He swallowed and finished the potion, coughing and gagging when he was through with it. She felt the potion take immediate effect beneath her hands—the feeling of his skin knitting itself back together.

"You're lucky they didn't pierce your bones. Would have hurt—" She grabbed the collar of his cloak to keep him from falling back. He stared at the sky, blinking in hopes of erasing the images of his skin healing and of his bloody leg.

A hard smack to his face brought him back to reality. He stared at Shêza as she continued to pat his cheeks. "You don't look at your leg," she said with another smack. "You look at me, you understand? I said _do you understand?" _

His head rolled up and down as she scrunched his mouth again. When his flesh was knitted back together, she slid her hand off of his leg and stood.

"G-give me a m-moment," he panted when she motioned for him. He took in gulps of air and tried to move his leg. It felt rubbery and numb, but there was no pain. He panicked when he heard her walk away. He should have known that she'd leave him—

"Eat this." She poked a piece of dried bread at his mouth, and when he didn't open it, she huffed and pried his mouth open with her fingers. He didn't remember if he ever chewed the bread or just swallowed it whole, but soon there was cool water running down his throat to help it down.

Shêza emptied the canteen into his mouth and corked it once he drank all of the water. She waited until he sat himself up and regained some color in his face. She looked at him expectantly.

"Th-thank you," he said with a small smile. She shook her head at him and frowned before walking back to the cart.

"You shouldn't," she said.

"Pardon?" He stood on wobbly legs and gradually made his way to the wagon. He had trouble hoisting himself into the driver's seat, but eventually he made it up.

"Thank me. You shouldn't." She settled into the back of the cart, refusing to make eye contact with him.

"Why not? I would have died—"

"Just let it lie, would you?" she snapped. He closed his mouth and urged his team into a trot.

* * *

Isben's eyes were drooping closed when they finally reached Riften. The two moons were already high in the sky when he pulled his wagon up to Riften's gates. His horses neighed and swished their tails when guards stopped him from entering the city.

"Hold there, traveler," one of them said. Isben forced his eyes open and sat straight in his seat. He almost fell over from the effort.

"All newcomers into the city must pay a tax," the other guard said. "Riften law," he added when Shêza glared at the man.

Isben sighed and pulled his purse out. "How much?" he asked with a yawn.

The guard eyed his purse and smiled. "Fifty gold should do it."

Shêza snatched Isben's wrist when he started counting out his coins. She glared at the guards and felt the hair on the back of her neck bristle. "_Fifty _gold? Do you take us as simpletons? You and I both know that this is felony."

The guard cleared his throat and shifted on his feet. "I'm afraid I don't know what you're talking about—"

"Oh?" She gave him a toothy grin. "And how about if I told your Jarl of this 'tax'? I'm sure the prisons wouldn't mind accommodating two more goons."

The guards glanced at each other before stepping to the side. "A-aye. Just keep this between the four of us, yes?" They offered to stable the horses and keep watch over their wares. Shêza gave them a rather menacing grin and hissed a warning that should anything be out of order in the morning, she'd know just who to find.

She hesitated once inside the gates, opting to let Isben lead. He muffled a yawn in his hand and rubbed his eyes as he walked further into Riften. He looked about, trying to find the nearest inn and bed to collapse in. His leg was having fitful spasms, and all he wanted to do was rest. Preferably without Shêza in the same room as him.

* * *

"Yes, yes, Romlyn. I've heard this hundreds of times before: Valen stopped the Oblivion Crisis single-handedly with a bottle of ale in one hand. Just shut up and drink your mead," Keerava said. Romlyn sputtered but took another long pull from his tankard. "Divines, I need out of this place."

"Excuse me—"

"Talen-Jei, the front needs more sweeping."

"Pardon us—"

"And take care of the far left table. Francis was there this morning."

Isben sighed and opened his mouth to speak again, but Shêza slammed her fist on the counter. Keerava jumped and glared at the two of them. "What in the name of Oblivion is—"

"Rooms," Shêza growled.

Keerava blinked and smiled in Argonian fashion when Isben patted his coin purse. "Travelers! O-of course, of course! Now if you'll just leave the ten gold here—very good—I'll show you to your room."

"_Rooms," _Shêza all but practically roared out.

"Sorry, but only one room per party. And we only have one left. Besides, husband and wife shouldn't mind sharing a room."

Shêza gawked and flexed her fingers, ready to rip the scales off of the Argonian. Isben frowned at her, stilling her thoughts. "Now, _darling, _let the nice lady show us to our rooms, hm?" he lilted at her. She shuddered with fury and shot him a look that could have frozen Lake Rumare.

"Here we are," Keerava said once they were at the top of the stairs. She opened the first door and ushered them inside. "Let me know if you two need anything else. I'll have a basin of water sent up. Won't be warm, though."

"That sounds lovely," Isben said with a grin. "Doesn't it, _dear?" _

Shêza forced herself to smile, but it looked more like a grimace. Keerava let them be to fetch the water. Once the door closed, Shêza shoved Isben onto the bed and pinned him with her weight. She snarled and fisted a hand in his hair to yank his head back.

"You twatty, foolish little—"

"You're taking this 'husband and wife' facade a little too far, aren't you, _sweetie?" _Isben smirked when Shêza's face flushed. She tightened her grip in his hair.

"If you so much as utter another word, I'll—"

"Dearest, you look quite lovely with that blush on your cheeks." He brushed his knuckles against her cheek and tucked a lock of hair behind her ear. "I don't recall ever seeing you so flustered before." He flicked her earlobe with his thumb and lightly stroked it.

She growled, but the anger on her face faded away. In its place was bewilderment. She looked at him as if he had three heads. "_Hmph." _She swatted his hand away and gave his face a smack before climbing off of him. She stalked the short distance to the other side of the room and crossed her arms. "You are a foolish little Thalmor brat."

"Aren't I?" he asked quietly. He drummed his fingers together and sighed. "I'm sorry."

She looked over her shoulder at him, but before she could say a word, Keerava let herself in, carrying a small bucket of water. "Here you are. If you need anything else, you know where to find me." The Argonian closed the door, and Isben waited for her footsteps to recede before he pulled the leg of his trouser up and started cleaning the blood from him.

Shêza sat on the floor, her back to him as she stared at the wooden walls. She frowned when her ears picked up sounds coming from the room next to theirs, and it did not take a grand imagination to know what the people inside were doing. That was when she noticed the small note tacked to the wall.

_To all customers using this room:_

_ We are not responsible for any unusual, abnormal, questionable, erotic, painful, or otherwise frustrating sounds coming from the adjacent bedroom. Please disregard the noises. Enjoy your stay, and please feel free to use the tables downstairs as a foot stool!_

_ -Francis Ferdinand_

She growled when she heard Isben clear his throat.

"You can have the bed, if you'd like."

"I told you I don't like beds," she said.

"But the floor—"

"_Leave me be," _she growled before curling up into a ball. He sighed and pulled the furs off of the bed to drape over her. She hissed and bared her teeth at him in warning.

"I just want you to be comfortable," he said with a shrug of his shoulders. "The floor's hard and cold."

"Didn't you hear me, you twat? I said _leave me be."_

"I heard you. I just didn't listen." He tried to tuck the furs around her, but she grabbed his wrist and gave it a painful twist. He yelped and retreated back to his bed, clutching his wrist. He swore beneath his breath and gently prodded at it. She swallowed when he popped the bone back into place. His eyes met hers and he kept his face neutral. "Sleep well," he whispered before turning on his side.

She exhaled and curled into the furs.

* * *

_He snores, _Shêza thought as she watched Isben sleep. It was early in the morning, and she suspected that the stores were just opening. It was the ideal time to deliver the merchandise without the hustle and bustle of afternoon crowds. _But not nearly as loud as Ivor. Thank Talos. _She tilted her head to the side when he snored out more snuffles. _Drools, too. Twat. _She rolled her eyes when he whimpered and tossed over onto his other side.

She took the bucket of water, shrugged, and dumped it on him. He jolted awake and glanced about in a frenzy. He shouted when he saw Shêza looming over him.

"Sweet Divines and their underthings!" he gasped. He clutched his chest and blinked away the sleep from his eyes. "Don't _stand _over someone like that, especially with that war paint!"

"You were making sounds and bothering me. So I woke you up. All is well now."

"What, you've never heard a man snore before? I can't do one thing without you finding issue with it!" He rubbed his neck and frowned at her. "And I was having a good dream, too."

"I can see that." She glanced down and gave him an accusatory stare.

He threw his hands in the air and groaned. "I have a full bladder!"

She grunted and huffed. "Well when you take care of your glory, find me downstairs."

* * *

"Do they really have stores down here? On a _dock?" _Isben carefully climbed down the stairs leading to the docks below Dryside. When he and Shêza left The Bee and Barb, he'd asked a sour woman by the name of Grelka for directions to Elgrim's Elixirs, and she was none too kind pointing him in the right direction. She also made him swear to make a purchase at her store in the marketplace.

"The entire city is one big plank floating on water," Shêza said. "I hope it sinks. It smells here."

"Someone's testy today," he chuckled.

"Someone will be without testes if they keep speaking."

He closed his mouth and crossed the plank to the other side of the dock.

"There is slime on these walls." Shêza wrinkled her nose. "And it smells like _fish."_

"Fish is very good for the body. The oils, especially." Isben glanced at the sign outside of the store. "This is it: Elgrim's Elixirs." She opened the door for him and they let themselves in. His eyes twinkled when he saw the counters and shelves filled with ingredients. Shêza seemed disgusted by the grime covering every surface in the store.

"I'm kind of busy," a voice called from further in the store, "but if you need any potions, feel free to look around."

Isben cleared his throat and adjusted the grip he had on the crates. "Delivery from Arcadia of Whiterun!"

An old man stepped into the room and looked Isben up and down. "So, you're her delivery boy, eh? Hmph. Said you were an alchemist, too. Don't look like much to me." He coughed and called over his shoulder, "Ingun! Make yourself useful, girl, and see to this man!"

"Yes, Master Elgrim." A young woman hurried away from her alchemy station over to Isben. She smiled at him and helped him set the crates down on the counter. "Ahh, fungal pods! This is just what I needed for my current experiment. Master Elgrim will be pleased."

Isben smiled and watched as she looked through the crates. "I'm glad I can be of help. Alchemist to alchemist, yes?"

"Oh, yes," she agreed. "Maybe this time Mother will finally see what I'm capable of." She paid him for his troubles and offered to make some tea for him. Shêza's ears perked up and she looked over Isben's shoulder at the woman, but Isben kindly refused the offer. Shêza pouted and nudged her toes into the floor.

"Well, either way," Ingun said. "I do hope to see you again, stranger. Maybe we can brew some potions together. Master Elgrim's always telling me to branch off with my specialties."

"I hope the opportunity presents itself, too. A good day to you, Miss Ingun." Isben weighed the pouch of gold in his hand once they were outside of the store.

"All that for a little handful of gold?" Shêza scoffed. "This canal _stinks. _Like a sewer. Should have given us more than that."

Isben shrugged. "At least they were pleasant. Considering—" Isben was interrupted as a figure collided into his side. They quickly righted themselves and darted up the canal stairs. Shêza growled and took off after them, recognizing thievery when she saw it. Isben hurried after her once he regained his feet, shouting at her to slow down.

She chased the thief through the upper level of Dryside and onto the docks of Plankside. He darted around a corner, losing her for a brief moment. She turned the corner just in time to see the door to the Black-Briar Meadery close. Growling, she yanked open the door and ran inside. She sniffed the air for any sign of the thief.

"_Yoo-hoo!" _

Her head snapped up and she bared her teeth at the thief. He was leaning against the upper level railing, waving at her. She snarled and darted through the meadery, ignoring the shouts the workers made as she pushed past them. Isben wasn't too far behind, and he offered apologies to the workers and followed Shêza up the stairs.

"This is a wild goose chase!" Isben said once he was close enough to her.

They chased the thief back into Dryside and took an immediate left once they were in the marketplace. Isben and Shêza came to a stop in a deserted yard.

"Dead end," Isben said. "You sure he came this way?"

She nodded. "His scent is strong here." She whirled around when she heard a soft thud and growled as the thief approached them from behind. She would have lunged at him, but Isben grabbed her arm.

The thief clapped his hands and gave a bow. "Charming Ingun Black-Briar? Bravo, bravo. Even I couldn't have done that." The thief wore a thoughtful look as he added, "Not to say that I didn't try. The Black-Briars have always been... _difficult. _Yes, I suppose that is the word for them."

Shêza shook herself free of Isben's hand and growled at him. He ignored her and kept his eyes on the thief. "Who are you?"

The thief's laughter was as rich as honey and caramel. He slicked his hair back. "Already you forgot me? It was only yesterday that we met—indirectly. Sort of. Not exactly."

"Ivarstead," Isben said after a moment. "You were at Ivarstead. You propositioned Lynly."

"Yes, Lynly. That was her name, right?" He sighed. "Shame that Wilhelm interrupted us. The lady last night was certainly satisfied with my touch. But you know that as well, no?"

"No thoughts for the other patrons? I'm not surprised."

"Can you blame a man? Have to make sure everything's up and in working order, no?"

"And you like keeping it up, don't you?"

"Oh, I _like _you," he said. The thief laughed again when Isben didn't reply. "Francis is the name, and don't you forget it. The ladies certainly don't."

Isben looked the thief up and down. He was a petite man, but lithe and full of muscle in his limbs, especially his legs. "Francis. I believe you have something of mine."

"And I believe that something is now mine." Francis opened his palm to reveal the magenta stone Vimund had given Isben. "Do you know what this is? Oh, of course you don't, how could you? Let's just say that alone, they're worthless. You might as well let me keep it."

"And how do you know I'm not collecting them?"

"I thought the Dragonborn was supposed to be saving us from our impending doom?" Francis laughed when Isben took a step back and Shêza took a step forward. "Oh, don't look so surprised! You'll have wrinkles if you keep frowning like that—especially you, lady."

"What do you want?" she spat.

"You know, I'm beginning to think that I'm terrified of you. Might piss myself any moment now. I want to talk to the Dragonborn, not you. You scare me."

Shêza pushed Isben in front of her.

Francis smiled a dazzling grin at him and paced the width of the yard. "Word has it you're looking to clear out Shroud Hearth Barrow in Ivarstead."

"You never told me this," Shêza hissed in Isben's ear. He ignored her for the time being.

"And what of it?" Isben asked.

"There are traps in the Barrow. Lots and lots of traps that are waiting for an unskilled adventurer—such as you—to go wandering in and traipse all over them. Now, if you had someone who could recognize these traps and disarm them, maybe then you'd be of use to Ivarstead."

"And are you suggesting that you're the person fit for the job?"

Francis smirked and toyed with the magenta stone. "I might be. But I might not be. Let's make a deal, Dragonborn. You let me help you with this Barrow, and I keep the stone. And you don't come looking for the stone. We both gain something from this little companionship, yes?"

"Remember the last time you helped a thief?" Shêza whispered.

"Didn't stop you from running after him," Isben said back.

She huffed and crossed her arms. "I am against this."

"Well, good thing you're not the Dragonborn," Francis said. "This is his decision."

"And what if I refuse your offer? Then what happens?"

"Well," Francis said as he scratched his chin, "then I keep the stone, you don't find me, you have no help in the Barrow, and you face possible death. Oh, and I probably follow after you and loot your corpse. No hard feelings."

"_No," _Shêza growled out.

"Give me two days," Isben said, "and then meet me at the stables at dawn. If you're not there, I won't wait for you."

A grin slowly stretched on Francis's lips. "Alright then, Dragonborn. We have a deal. All we need is the handshake." He held his hand out for Isben, but Shêza swatted it away.

"Don't think I don't know that trick, thief."

He laughed and pulled his hand back to his side. "Smart lady you have there. And here I thought I was going to relieve you of your earnings from Elgrim. What a shame."

* * *

**Let me clarify something about Shêza. She is not racist. Thalmor is an organization, not a specific culture. She doesn't like Thalmor, but she's alright with elves (except if they're twatty half-elves half-Nords). I will go into further depth of her dislike toward the Thalmor in later chapters. Thanks for reading!**


	17. Arts & Crafts

Skyrim belongs to Bethesda, but any OC/plot twist or idea you do not recognize belongs to me. All and any feedback is appreciated :) Enjoy!

* * *

Garald finished tucking his daughters into bed and placed a kiss on both of their brows. Nyssa snuggled into her furs while Helena giggled and squirmed in her covers.

"Can you read it to me again?" she asked with a winning smile. Garald chuckled and smoothed her hair back.

"You can recite it verbatim, Lena dear." He nuzzled her head and growled softly. "You know it better than I do."

"What does verba—verbee—"

"Never you mind that, dearest. Now close those eyes, and have sweet dreams of Fenrisulfr." He tucked Dagfinn next to her and gave her one last kiss. He waited until her eyes closed and breathing deepened before turning to his other daughter.

"I know you're still awake, Nyssa."

Nyssa opened one eye and smiled at her father. "Maybe," she whispered. Garald smiled and brushed her cheek with his knuckles. She sighed and nuzzled his palm. "I have more training tomorrow."

Garald nodded and pat her on the leg. "You need sleep then, Nyssa. Ivor won't appreciate you being tired."

"Since when does he appreciate anything?" Nyssa rolled her eyes and wrapped her furs tighter around herself until she made a cocoon out of them. "Good night, Father."

"Sweet dreams, my little huntress." He kissed her temple and moved to leave their quarters. He looked over his shoulder one last time and smiled before closing the divider. He saw Ivor on his way to his own chambers and grinned at his nephew.

Ivor inclined his head. "It is an honor, Alpha Garald."

Garald placed a hand on his shoulder and chuckled. "How many times must I tell you to refer to me by name, Ivor?"

He ducked his head and averted his eyes. "Countless."

"You're family, Ivor. Your mother was my sister, may Hircine keep her forever. I love you as I would a son."

Ivor nodded and straightened his posture. "Thank you, Alph—"

Garald raised an eyebrow.

Ivor cleared his throat. "Garald." He gave a small smile when his uncle chuckled again. "Nuel was looking for you earlier. I told him to wait in your chambers."

"Ah, thank you." Garald's brow furrowed from the news.

"Is everything alright, uncle?"

The Alpha smoothed his features and pat Ivor on the shoulder. "You needn't worry about it, Ivor. Just nitty gritty details that the Alpha must see to. Now get yourself some sleep, my boy."

Ivor forced himself not to question him further. He lowered his head and said, "A good night to you, uncle."

Garald nodded and watched as Ivor disappeared around a corner and retreated to his chambers. Garald scratched his beard and let himself into his chambers. He wasn't surprised when he found Nuel rearranging his furs and mounted trophies.

"Nuel, my old friend," Garald said with an exasperated smile, "I don't suppose my décor brought you here, now did it?"

Nuel huffed and continued rearranging the furniture. "I say, Garald, you have no sense of position or location! This is why I am your adviser—to help you with such things." He took a step back and scrutinized the room. Huffing again, he set to move more furs here and there.

Garald chuckled, "A complete crisis this is, I agree."

"And look at these furs!" Nuel picked and prodded at the furs stacked on the floor and clicked his tongue. "They're all matted together!" He gave them a whiff and recoiled his head. "And _wooo! _Which servant sees to these?"

"Petra does. She tends to my daughters and nephew as well." Garald suppressed another chuckle when Nuel shook his head and _tsked _beneath his breath. "I found nothing wrong with them, old friend."

"Bah, I'll have to have a talk with that girl. This is unacceptable! You are the Alpha; your furs should be in tip-top condition."

Garald sighed and crossed the room to pour himself and Nuel a bowl of water. "Ah, Nuel, leave the girl be. She does a fine job and doesn't need you clucking after her."

"Clucking? _Clucking? _Is that what I'm doing then?" Nuel huffed and scurried back and forth across the room in search of something else to fix. "You're spoiling the servants, Garald! They are at the bottom of our caste system and should not have such lax in their duties! Especially _Petra, _of all servants. She wasn't even born into our pack!"

Garald walked over to him and handed him a bowl. "Petra is as much a part of this pack as I am, Nuel. Her parents did us a great service, have you forgotten?"

Nuel sighed and bobbed his head up and down before taking a drink.

"Without them, you would have died from the Rattles," Garald continued.

"A shame her parents couldn't have cured Selena as well," Nuel said with a sigh. "You know I cared for your sister greatly, Garald."

"I do, old friend, but Petra's parents were not responsible for her death. They did everything they could for her and stayed by her side as she succumbed." They bowed their heads in a moment of silence before Garald spoke. "But you did not come here to be scolded, Nuel."

"No, I did not, but I won't complain about that. It actually has to do with Selena—particularly her son."

Garald grunted and took a sip of water. "Don't tell me Ivor shooed you out of his quarters again." He gave Nuel a knowing look before saying, "You _do _have a tendency to tidy up _everyone's _furs."

Nuel gawked and clasped his chest. "You should see the mess he makes! His trophies are almost as horribly arranged as yours are! Except he has too many bear heads; he needs more variety." Nuel shook his head and paced the room with his hands behind his back. "Ah. No, I didn't try to make Ivor's chambers a little more presentable." He paused and turned to look at Garald.

"You're aware that Ivor is a ripe age to have a mate, Garald," Nuel continued. "Twenty-eight summers, I believe?"

"Yes, Nuel. You never fail to remind me of my nephew's age."

"And you're aware that at such an age, he _should _have a mate already? You were about his age when Verena had Shêzanaré, after all."

Garald's face softened and he lowered his voice. "I remember that day as if it was yesterday. Divines, she never looked more beautiful than holding my Shêza in her arms." His gaze became distant and he smiled sadly. "My Verena. Not a day goes by when I don't miss her. I see her face in Shêzanaré's."

"Yes," Nuel sighed in sympathy. "We all miss her. She was an asset to our pack and an honorable woman. But you know that my Ritta is of an appropriate age for a mate, Garald. And she is a hunter, as well."

"Are you suggesting that she and Ivor take each other as mates?"

Nuel beamed and puffed his chest out. "Think about it, Garald! Ivor is a skilled hunter, and so is my daughter. They have much in common and accompany each other on many hunts! You know my daughter is strong of mind and body, same as Ivor. She would make a fine Alpha Female."

Garald sighed and rubbed his jaw. He took a seat on a jutting rock. "Your daughter is a fine huntress, Nuel, and she has provided our pack with many meals. But I'm afraid Ivor does not need a replica of himself."

"A _replica? _Ritta is nothing like him, Garald. Ivor is bitter where Ritta is strong-willed."

"Forgive me, old friend. I did not mean to anger you. But I only think that Ivor needs someone who can melt the ice around his heart. He's not the same boy anymore, Nuel. He used to be so _happy._" Garald smiled and clasped his hands together. "I remember one time he had the greatest idea to knock a beehive down from a tree and gobble down the honey. Selena nearly had a heart attack that day."

"Garald, please," Nuel breathed out, "live in the present. We know why your nephew has become so withdrawn from anyone outside his main family, but we must consider the cure for this! Now, when he becomes Alpha, he will need a mate to—"

"_If _he becomes Alpha, Nuel."

"_What?" _Nuel's jaw hung slack, and he crossed his arms. "Don't tell me you're considering your daughter for the role of leadership, Garald! Our ways have always been the oldest _male _of your bloodline, not female."

"I do not believe sex holds any sway in the matter, Nuel. It is purely based upon skills and tolerance, old friend."

"So you have not decided yet? Ivor is fit for the part, Garald! He is strong, an able hunter, and frequently makes time for his pack! Why, just yesterday I saw him letting Helena bead and braid his hair."

"I've never seen your daughter spend time with the little ones," Garald said. "In fact, I've seen her look down upon them as if they are vermin. You cannot expect me to pass a blind eye over that, Nuel."

"Ritta has no younger siblings; she does not know how to interact with the pups. But if she had her own child, now, that would be a completely different story. She would love the babe with all her heart, I'm sure."

"Ivor has no younger siblings, either, but I don't see him sneering at the children."

"Ivor has Helena and Nyssa—they're practically sisters to him!" Nuel clicked his tongue and frowned. "Garald, why fight this union? Our families have known each other for generations. It would be an honor if Ivor and Ritta joined together."

Garald ran a hand through his hair and rested his elbows on his knees. "Ivor needs a mate who will calm his anger and bitter thoughts, not someone who will only urge him to act on them. He needs a tender touch in all aspects: with himself, with children, with the world—_everything._"

Nuel sniffed and raised his chin. "Such a person does not exist, Garald."

"Perhaps," he said quietly.

Nuel narrowed his eyes at him. "You have someone in mind, don't you? Someone other than my Ritta?" Garald met his gaze. "Who? Is it one of our other huntresses? None of them can compare to Ritta, I assure you."

"Not a huntress," Garald said.

Nuel's eyes nearly popped out of his face. "You mustn't be thinking straight, Garald! That's—that's—! It's a _disgrace!" _

"Disgrace or not, he'd be mating for love."

"_Love? _Between _them? _Garald, your mind is lost! Ivor has no attraction toward her whatsoever—how _could _he? She's... she's... a _servant!" _Nuel paced around the room in a frenzy, tearing at his hair and whimpering. "You have gone mad, Garald! Are you ill? Is it the water? How can you even—_ohhhh _my Ritta will be ruined when she hears that a _servant _bested her!"

Garald steepled his fingers as he watched Nuel scurry about.

"How can you even _suggest _such a thing, Garald? She's so _different _and...and... _different! _She spends more time with the children than she does with females of her own age! Why, she cannot even measure up to a hunter! She can't even _hunt! _All she does is _clean. _What use will she be to Ivor? Oh, he'll have clean furs, sure, but she cannot support a Brute of his caliber."

"He'll be _happy, _Nuel."

"Ritta can make him just as happy, if not more. But _Petra...! _It's disgusting even thinking about a hunter and a servant together."

"I find it heartening. Caste should not come in the way of love, Nuel. It just goes to show how modern politics have seeped into our society."

"Hah! You speak of them as if they were gazing into each other's eyes, dreaming of a life together. It's obvious Petra pines after him, but he fails to reciprocate her feelings." Nuel snorted. "The girl's so timid she stares at him from a distance, not even daring to come close to him! What kind of Brute needs a mate like that?"

"You are obviously not aware of the fact that she is the _only _female outside of my family that he speaks with."

"Rubbish," Nuel said. "He and Ritta have had conversations before. I've overheard them time to time."

"Conversations of what? How their hunt went? How the elk tastes?" Garald shook his head and exhaled heavily. "What intriguing talk."

"Oh, and I suppose Petra has such _intriguing _things to say? The girl can't even read, Garald!"

"You do not see what I see," the Alpha said.

"Because there isn't anything _to _see! Your mind is fooling you, Garald! You're seeing things that are not even there! There is no deeper meaning behind a servant."

Garald frowned and growled softly. "They serve our pack just as much as the hunters." Silence stretched between them as they stared each other down. Finally, Nuel sighed and slouched his shoulders. "I do not ask that you like my wishes, Nuel. But I ask that you respect them."

Nuel sighed and nodded. "Of course, Garald. I will try to understand your point of view."

"That is all I ask, old friend."

"I will leave you be and retire for the night. Good sleep to you, Garald."

"To you as well, Nuel."

Nuel bowed his head and exited the Alpha's chambers. He frowned and strode toward his own quarters full of purpose. _I may try to understand you, but that does not mean I _will _understand you. Nor does it mean that I will capitulate so easily. Petra. All of this is her doing, the wench. Trying to outdo my Ritta, is she? We'll see about that._

* * *

After two days of Riften, Isben was ready to leave. The city itself was a depressant, the people miserable and nasty. He'd resorted to keeping his coin purse well hidden, as more than once thieves tried to steal from him.

For the fifth time, he checked his team's tack and made sure they were prepared for the journey back to Ivarstead. Shêza rolled her eyes and continued to watch him try to occupy his time. "Eager to see the thief?" she asked in a hiss.

He ignored the challenge and readjusted his team's saddles. She snorted when he didn't reply. As if on cue, Francis came strolling out of Riften's gates, looking as if he was on holiday.

Or like he just had another erotic night, as the case was.

"Well, isn't it a fine and _dandy _morning?" Francis asked before yawning. He stretched his arms over his head and sighed. "Let's get the show on the road, eh, Dragonborn?" He turned toward Shêza and jumped when he met her furious glare. "Touchy."

Isben waved a hand at him before Shêza had more reason to chomp on his throat. "You're late."

Francis smirked and popped the bones in his neck. "I had to make sure Little Francis was taken care of before setting off on this adventure. You know how that is, right?"

Isben exhaled and shook his head. "I won't prod further."

Francis chuckled and joined Shêza in the back of the carriage. She hissed at him and bared her teeth when he tried to sit next to her. "He is _not _sitting with me," she growled.

"Where else is he going to sit?" Isben asked. He climbed into the driver's seat and hid a smile when Shêza growled at him. "Oh, hush up, would you? He's just sitting."

"That's right," Francis beamed. "I'm just sitting." He took a place across from her and folded his hands on his stomach. "See? Right where you can see my hands, too. Aren't we happy, now?"

"_No," _she spat.

Isben chuckled and urged his team into a trot.

Francis drummed his fingers together and whistled a tune, trying to distract himself from the glower on Shêza's face. "So," he said once the silence became too uncomfortable, "I didn't catch either of your names."

"We have no names," Shêza said.

"And I have no penis."

"I wouldn't be surprised," she sneered back. "You have a girlish figure."

"_Oh, _the scary lady has a bite to her. I am terrified—Dragonborn, can we switch places? Please?"

"Do you know how to conduct a carriage?" Isben asked.

"No," Francis sighed, "I suppose I don't."

"You can always walk," Shêza said with a false smile. "I'm sure it'll make the carriage move faster."

"Now you're just being mean," Francis pouted. "Mean lady."

"Girly man."

"Scary woman."

"Bastard-making prick."

Francis laughed and crossed his ankles. "Is that supposed to be an insult?"

Shêza harrumphed and crossed her arms. "You disgust me."

"I'm not surprised, given your heritage," he said softly. Her eyes narrowed and she growled at him.

"Keep it down back there, would you?" Isben said over his shoulder.

She inhaled deeply when Francis wore a smug look. She raised an eyebrow when she caught the scent of _it_ on him, though it was faint, like a passing breeze. She wondered if it was all in her imagination, that scent, but his cheeky smile told her otherwise.

Francis beamed and bobbed his head side to side. "We have so much in common, don't we?"

"We have _nothing _in common, _dog." _

"Oy, Dragonborn! I feel abused back here! She's abusing me! Abuse! Abuse!"

"Better you than me, thief," Isben chuckled. "I'm Isben, by the way."

Shêza huffed and hunched her shoulders.

"Isben? What about Hasben? Or Wasben?" Francis slapped his knee and uttered a chuckle. "Oh, I make myself guffaw."

"You make me want to hurt something," Shêza said.

Francis coughed and rubbed the back of his neck. "You're rather frightening, do you know that?"

She licked her chops and forced herself to grin. "No, I didn't."

"She's going to eat me, Ben—do you mind if I call you Ben? That's what your name means, right? The Nordic equivalent of Benjamin?"

"You're the equivalent of a clod," Shêza sneered.

Francis cleared his throat. "I feel my self-esteem dissipating. It's collapsing, shrinking, _shriveling—"_

"Can't keep it up?" Isben laughed.

Francis's face lit up and he grinned like a cat. "_Ohoho, _I _really _like you, Dragonborn! Or do you prefer 'Isby'? I knew an Isby once. She was so soft and warm—"

"Just call me Isben."

* * *

"So, you're a thief," Isben said once they stopped the wagon to help themselves to dried bread and cheese.

Francis chuckled and slugged back a skin of wine. "I might be."

"Why lie when I _know _you're a thief?"

"Why ask if you know?" Francis smirked when Isben lowered his gaze. "Careful there. Don't want me snatching anything while you're not looking."

"You're really going to try something with Shêza staring at you?"

Francis pouted and stared at his wineskin. "You have a point there. She hasn't blinked for minutes."

Shêza growled.

"Oh, isn't she _cute," _Francis cooed. "My, but isn't she something to look at? All that _woman _in her is... terrifying me."

"She's not that bad," Isben said. Shêza glared at him.

Francis glanced between the two and took a bite of bread. "Does she have to keep looking at me like that? I feel like a captive. Most women stare at me in a daze, not with a glare."

Isben narrowed his eyes at him. "I still don't trust you. You're a _thief."_

"And he smells like a sewer," Shêza added.

Francis let out a _hmph. _"Want to know where I put the stone, scary lady?"

Shêza scrutinized him. "Where?"

"With my other stones, of course."

She growled, and Isben grabbed her poncho to keep her from lashing out at him.

Francis hummed and folded his arms behind his head. "Oh, the ladies just can't resist my stones, now can they?"

* * *

By the time the wagon pulled into Ivarstead, Shêza was three quarters ready to permanently maim Francis. _If he says one more word, out comes his tongue and gone are his stones._

"And that's why it's important to always siphon the python before you rake the field," Francis said with a firm bob of his head.

"That's it, he's dead," Shêza growled. Isben chuckled and shook his head.

"And that reminds me of a song," Francis lilted, ignoring the deadly glare on Shêza's face.

"Don't you _dare," _she said, her eyes blazing with annoyance.

He took in a deep breath and lowered his voice. "_Oh, there once was a woman named Mary Great Sue—"_

"—If you don't—"

"—_Who had a mouth as loud as a kazoo—"_

_ "—_shut your mouth—"

"—_And when Francis Ferdinand heard her great pleas—"_

_ "—_this instant—"

"—_He had to oblige by spreading her knees—"_

_ "—_I'm going to—"

"—_And when he saw her mounds give those great heaves—"_

_ "_—wring your neck—"

"—_He said to himself, Oh, Dibella!—" _

"—and choke you—"

"—_I should have brought some cookies and cream." _He bowed his upper body and put a hand on his chest. "Thank you all for listening, you can leave your purses here."

Shêza trembled with the urge to tackle the thief. "_You—you chatty little—"_

_ "_Oh dear, oh dear, she's red in the face!" Francis said. He placed a hand on his cheek and gave her an impish smile. "I _do _make the ladies breathless, now don't I? Mean lady, I can feel the air between us humming with life—"

"_Shut your mouth."_

"Something else is humming with life, too." He waggled his eyebrows and smirked when steam practically shot out of her ears and nostrils. "Ah, but I wonder what you'd look like if you gave those great heaves. What about you, Dragonborn?"

"I don't have mounds that heave," Isben said.

"I meant the Dragon in the back of the cart," Francis laughed. "All that _woman! _All of it covered with that ratty poncho. Shame, shame, _shame._"

Shêza crossed her arms over her chest when Francis eyed her. She growled and brought her knees to her chin. "Look elsewhere, _swine."_

Isben stopped the cart at Ivarstead's stables and climbed out of the driver's seat. He winced and slowly stretched his legs out while Francis and Shêza leapt out of the cart without any problems.

"Ah, the inn. What nice memories I have," Francis said. He glanced over at Shêza and smiled a little too widely. "Want to know what's in the inn?"

"No, I don't," she spat.

"_Beds," _he said in a sultry whisper.

She hissed and hurried over to Isben, well away from the thief. Francis laughed and clapped his hands together. "Oh, she's a _delight. _You two should come to Riften more often. This is free entertainment!"

"Skinning your hide will be entertaining, as well," she said from behind Isben.

Isben sighed and started walking toward the Vilemyr Inn. Francis put his hands on his hips and frowned. "The Barrow is _that _way, not toward the inn."

"But Wilhelm might have some more information on the hauntings," Isben said with a shrug. "Doesn't hurt to check twice."

Francis pouted and shuffled his feet. "I'll wait out here, then. Don't need my stones ripped off." Shêza narrowed her eyes at him in suspicion. Francis scoffed and tilted his head to the side. "Oh, yes, because I really want to steal a wagon. Come on, now, that's just pathetic. And you don't even have anything of value on the wagon. What, am I going to sell your ponies?"

"You just might," she said.

He rolled his eyes and leaned against the wagon. A sneer spread over his lips. "You just can't bear the thought of not having me around, eh? I'll oblige." He pushed himself off the wagon and started walking toward her. He bit his bottom lip and moaned. "To share a bed with you would be _divine, _my sweet."

Shêza hurried in the tavern after Isben.

Francis laughed, and his green eyes sparkled in amusement. "Oh, this is too much _fun."_

* * *

"Hey, lady," Francis whispered to Shêza as the three of them approached Shroud Hearth Barrow.

She growled at him.

"This place is supposed to be haunted," he said.

"No, is it?" She rolled her eyes.

"You can hold my hand if you're scared."

"And you can hold your prick to keep from pissing on us."

He laughed, "I don't need a reason to do that. Holding myself, that is. Not the pissing part." He glanced at Isben when he heard him chuckle. "I would never pee on you, Dragonborn."

Isben blinked and gave him a wry smile. "Thanks for letting me know."

Francis nodded. "Any time. Know what? That reminds me of another song."

"_No, _it doesn't," Shêza almost roared out.

He huffed. "Alright, alright." He stopped Isben when he was about to open the heavy door into the Barrow. "Allow me, Dragonborn. And keep quiet from now on." He fell into a crouch and slowly pried the door open. Though the metal was old and rusted, the hinges made no sound as Francis led them inside the Barrow.

"Careful," Francis said in a whisper that was barely audible. "This wood is old and weak." He motioned toward a spiral wooden staircase. "Step where I step."

They slowly made their way down the stairwell and into the ruins of Shroud Hearth Barrow. "Lovely furnishings, no?"

"You said to be quiet," Shêza hissed.

Francis shrugged. "These Draugar are dead. _Ooh no, the dead Draugar will come back to life and—"_

_ "Leave this place," _a voice breathed out.

Francis blinked. "Well, I think we found our ghost." He frowned when he noticed Shêza and Isben looking at him. "What?"

"_Leave," _the voice breathed out, and Francis felt its breath tickle the back of his neck.

"Should have bought me dinner and a drink if it wants to get _that _close to me," he muttered.

"_LEAVE."_

"I'll have to remember to pant in someone's ear next time I want them to do something," Francis said to himself. His eyes flashed as he smiled at Shêza.

"Don't even entertain the thought," she hissed.

He chuckled quietly and led them to a barred door. "Well, since we aren't leaving, we'll have to get past this door."

Isben examined the bars and frowned. "There's no keyhole."

"Not to worry, Ben. Just leave it to me." He crept toward an adjacent room with four levers on the wall. He frowned and checked the room over. "_Oh, _that's cute," he said when he saw the group of slots in the wall. "Darts. Is that the best they can do?" He sighed and clicked his tongue before prodding at the levers. He smirked when he heard something click. "Definitely not this lever."

Isben and Shêza waited at the barred door, and when Francis pulled the correct lever and the bars fell, Isben was yanked backward.

"Let's try to understand something, Dragonborn," Francis said as he dragged Isben away from the bars. They watched as spikes shot out from the walls. "You let me lead while in creepy dungeons armed with traps, yes? Unless you want to be a kebab."

Isben nodded dumbly as the spikes receded.

"Good," Francis said. "Shall we?" He halted the group again when they were just about to round a corner. "Ghost-man's up ahead," he whispered.

Shêza unsheathed her dagger. "Let's end this, then."

Isben held his sword and signaled for Francis to proceed. The thief smiled and crept into the room, immediately blending into the shadows. The ghost looked up from its desk when Shêza and Isben charged into the room. It brought up a shield fueled by magicka just as Shêza slashed at it. The ghost shouted and charged a spell in its other hand. Shêza jumped back when flames shot out from its palm, and she pushed Isben out of the way when it had another spell ready.

A sudden crack, and the ghost fell to the floor dead. Isben stared at Francis. "Where's your weapon?"

Francis held his hands up and wiggled his fingers. "Right here, Dragonborn." He laughed when Isben still looked confused. "Expected me to be an archer? Or maybe use daggers? Oh, all these assumptions just because I'm a thief."

"You're a brawler," Isben said.

"_No, _I'm a pugilist. Why shed all that blood while fighting when it can be avoided? Besides, it's a dying art."

Shêza snorted. "Girlish figure and a girlish mindset."

"Why is my fighting style more interesting than the Dunmer at my feet?" Francis sighed and his eyes took on a dreamy look. "I remember the last time a Dunmer was at my feet. _Gods, _her mouth was absolutely _exquisite—"_

Isben cleared his throat to cut him off. Francis chuckled and took a step back so Isben could inspect the Dunmer's body. "So, our ghost wasn't really a ghost."

"It appears so," Isben said. He avoided looking at the man's snapped neck. He frowned when Francis started rifling through the man's pockets. "Have some decency."

Francis laughed and stuffed a coin purse—Isben didn't want to _know _where he stuffed the purse. "It's not like he has any use for it anymore."

Shêza hissed and flexed her fingers. "Picking off the dead like a scavenger."

He sighed and bit his cheek. "He was a very bad man for fooling Ivarstead. And I have use for money, unlike him. Therefore, I am justified."

Isben, seeing no way to win the argument, stood between them as Shêza looked ready to leap on Francis. "Let's just look for evidence of his crimes to bring back to Wilhelm. He'll need proof if he's going to believe us."

"A fine idea, Dragonborn." Francis smiled and set to work with Shêza watching his every move.

* * *

"I can't believe it," Wilhelm said as he paged through the journal Francis found in the Barrow. "That Wyndelius had us all fooled! And here I thought he was an honest man." He looked up at Isben, a glare fixed in his brow. "I hope you took care of him."

"He won't be haunting Ivarstead any longer," he said.

"Good," Wilhelm growled. He sighed and leaned against his counter. "I suppose a 'thank you' wouldn't be sufficient, now would it? Here, take this." He rummaged through his shelves and pulled out a sapphire dragon-claw. Isben's eyes widened at the sight of it. "It isn't any use to me, and maybe it isn't any to you, but you could always sell it for a good bit of coin."

Isben smiled and accepted the claw. "Thank you, Wilhelm."

"No: thank _you, _stranger. Ivarstead will always remember this, you can count on it."

Francis immediately hurried over to Isben when he left the inn. "So? He give you any coin?"

Isben held up the claw, and Francis snatched it to inspect it. "A trinket? We deal with Ivarstead's whopping ghost problem for a _trinket?" _

"It isn't a trinket," Isben said. He glanced at Shêza. "You'll see. We're going back in the Barrow."

Francis shrugged. "Whatever you say, Dragonborn. Whatever you say."

* * *

"Now, if we align these symbols correctly," Isben said aloud to no one in particular, "the door should open."

Francis watched as Isben turned wheels this way and that on an ornate door. "I've seen these in several ruins. Tried everything to open them: lockpicks, physical force—"

Shêza snorted and cackled.

"Alright, maybe not physical force."

Isben lodged the dragon-claw in the door and took a step back. Slowly, it receded into the floor. Francis wrinkled his nose as dust fell from the door and waved a hand in the air to clear it. "I smell the living dead up ahead," he said.

"Draugar," Isben sighed.

"And lots of them. Oh, we just opened up a whole crypt of nasties with nasty traps." Francis crouched and crept ahead of them. "This will be interesting."

* * *

After Francis saved them from falling prey to darts, fire, falling rocks, and swinging axes, Isben felt that he didn't have to watch the thief's every move. Shêza thought otherwise.

"They just keep coming," Francis said as he rubbed his knuckles. "Just like that whore in Riften, actually."

Isben frowned at him. "They must be guarding something."

Francis's eyes sparkled. "Treasure?"

"Or more Draugar," Shêza sneered. Francis pouted.

Isben's step faltered as he felt something throb in his head. He rubbed his temple and groaned. "I'm afraid it's not more Draugar."

Francis eyed him up and down. "You alright there, Dragonborn? You look a bit wan."

Isben waved a hand at him. "I'll be fine. Just lead on."

Francis shrugged, and they continued through the ruin. "Hold up, hold up. I don't like the looks of this."

Isben looked up at the door ahead of them. "Why? It's just a door."

"There is something foul on the other side," Shêza whispered.

"Lots of nasties," Francis agreed. "Ambushes aren't my particular cup of tea, but what can you do?" He opened the door, the hinges not making a sound, and took a few steps into the room. "I don't like wide open spaces littered with coffins, either."

Shêza and Isben followed him in. When the door slammed closed behind them, she had an arrow nocked and ready. The lids on the coffins popped off one by one, and skeletons and Draugar climbed out of them.

"Oh, _ew," _Francis said when he saw the flesh hanging off of a skeleton's bones. "That's disgusting." He shook his head and joined the fight as Shêza started firing arrows at the undead. He stayed in shadow near the Dragonborn as he used his sword to fell the skeletons. Whenever a skeleton would try to flank Isben, Francis would pull out their spines and let their bones fall to the ground in heaps.

"More of them to your left!" Shêza yelled.

"More like an army," Francis huffed. He brought his fists up and slammed them into a Draugar's face, crushing its nose and cheek. Isben darted around Francis—almost tripping on a bone—and brought his sword up to block an incoming blow to the thief. Francis beamed and slipped around Isben to twist the Draugr's neck around.

They continued with this style: Shêza peppering arrows at the undead, slowing them down to give Isben enough time to calculate his next attack. Whenever he was too slow, Francis was there to snap necks and break spines.

"_Woo!" _Francis shook his hands out and wiggled his fingers. "That all of them? I hope so. It looks like a graveyard down here." He heard another lid pop off its coffin and groaned. "Wishful thinking, eh? What good is it."

The three of them directed their attention to a raised platform where a Draugr adorned in spiky armor stood. It bellowed out a taunt at the three of them before charging down the stairs, its axe held high above its head.

"That doesn't look good," Francis chuckled. He crept back into the shadows while Shêza shot arrow after arrow at it. She tried aiming for its kneecaps, but the armor it wore deflected each of her arrows. She hissed and dropped her bow to wield her dagger.

Isben swallowed and managed to step to the side as the Draugr swung its weapon at him. Its axe lodged into the ground and stuck for a moment before it readied another attack. Its icy eyes flashed when it saw Isben unharmed.

"To the right, the right!" Francis shouted. "_No, _the other right! That's your _left!" _

Isben yelped as his feet stumbled over a bone and sent him falling backward. He winced when his back hit the ground.

"I'm going to regret this," Francis whimpered. He ran out of his hiding spot and leapt on the Draugr's back. He wrapped his legs around its waist and grabbed its fighting arm, keeping it from crushing Isben's face. The Draugr bellowed and flung a Shout at the wall. It lurched forward, trying to fling Francis off of its back. Francis hissed when the spikes on the Draugr's helmet started pricking his neck and drawing blood.

Isben gathered himself and swung at the Draugr's legs. Its calves and knees were well protected, but there was a gap in its armor that left its thighs exposed. Shêza dug her dagger in its other thigh, and together, they brought the Draugr to its knees.

"If I can just—" Francis saw stars when the Draugr slammed its head back into his jaw. "Get its helmet off—" He snarled and risked letting go of its arm to rip the helmet off. Not wasting any time, he wrapped his hands around its throat and jerked his arms backward, snapping its neck.

Isben's stomach flipped when the Draugr's spine protruded out from its neck. Before he knew it, he was lurched over and vomiting.

Francis fell back on his bum and watched Isben hurl. "The posters never said anything about this."

Shêza wrinkled her nose and swept her dagger clean. "They didn't say many things about him."

Francis shrugged and sucked a cut on his knuckles. "Well. They should fire the artist, then."

* * *

**So, favorite character so far? :)**


	18. Where We Belong

Skyrim belongs to Bethesda, but any OC/plot twist or idea that you do not recognize belongs to me. Thanks for the feedback, and enjoy!

* * *

Petra hummed to herself as she patched up a tear in Ivor's trousers. The fabric was torn right at the knee—as it always was—and she had to bite her tongue from scolding him. Whenever he tore something, it was always the knees of his trousers. She shook her head with a fond smile. Sometimes she wondered if she was a nanny or a servant.

She brushed a lock of hair out of her eyes and yawned. None of the hunters had woken up yet for the morning hunt, but all of the servants were already awake and seeing to their duties. The thought of having a couple more hours of sleep was appealing to her: to start the morning off not sewing or cleaning but instead letting the wolfblood howl in delight while chasing down prey.

Her stomach growled from the thought of food. She frowned and shifted in her place on the floor. She hoped they'd waken soon. There was only so much jerky that could tide her over until breakfast.

She lifted her gaze when she heard the divider rustle. She inclined her head. "Adviser Nuel, it is good to see you well this morning."

He looked down at her and wrinkled his nose. "Ah, yes. Already at the chores, are we?"

Petra stood from her place and lowered her head. "There is much to be done, Adviser Nuel. It would not be wise if I dallied."

Nuel uttered a _hmph _and snatched the trousers from her hands. She wrung her wrists when he gave the trousers a sniff. "And seeing to Ivor's needs already, I see." He scowled at the unfinished patch and tossed them back to her. "Dallied, did you say? Well, it's evident that you're taking your sweet time, Petra. Such trivial work should have been completed by now."

She stared at the floor. "Yes, Adviser Nuel. I will see to being quicker in my duties."

"All save for your responsibilities involving the Alpha's nephew, no? Probably move slower than a turtle when tending to him, don't you."

Petra's cheeks flushed and she stammered out, "I-I don't—"

He held up his hand for silence. "Never mind that, girl. I came here looking for my Ritta's arm-guard. It was supposed to be restitched and cleaned for today's hunt."

"I was not put in charge of that task, Adviser Nuel. If you'd like, I could ask the other servants."

Nuel glared and folded his hands behind his back. "Petra _dear. _Do you know your place in this pack?"

She blinked and avoided meeting his gaze. "Y-yes, Adviser Nuel, I do." When she didn't say anything further, he huffed and tapped his foot expectantly.

"And just what are you in this pack, Petra?"

"I-I am a servant, Adviser Nuel."

"Yes, you are a _servant. _And as a servant, it's your responsibility to see to the rest of the pack's needs. So tell me, Petra: _why _is my daughter's arm-guard not ready for her?"

She bit the inside of her mouth and hunched her shoulders. "I-I do not know, Adviser Nuel."

He clicked his tongue and shook his head. "Now was that so difficult, Petra?" He tilted her chin up, and she felt like she was being grabbed with talons. "_Dear _Petra, you'd do well to remember your place next time. Pride gets you nowhere, girl."

"Y-yes, Adviser Nuel. I-I'll remember."

He arched a brow. "Words, Petra? You will not offer me solid confirmation?" He released his hold on her. His mouth twitched when he saw the bruises forming on her chin. "Now, then. I expect my daughter to have her arm-guard tended to. Not only that, but her sabre cat pelt needs cleaning and grooming. The fur is horrendous and in poor condition. Furthermore, her bow needs oiling. With this chill in the air, the wood will become brittle."

Petra kept her hands folded in front of her to keep herself from rubbing her chin. "Y-yes, Adviser Nuel, it will be done."

"And I expect it done before the hunt, girl, otherwise you will receive less scraps than you already do. Do I make myself clear for you?"

She bowed her head. "Yes, Adviser Nuel."

"Good." He started leaving the servants' quarters, but stopped himself and turned back to her. "Oh, and Petra? Do tidy yourself up, girl. You look wretched." _Not that that's any surprise._

Her blush crept down her neck, and she closed her eyes in embarrassment. "O-of course, Adviser Nuel."

* * *

Helena whimpered and leaned against Nyssa. "Where's Petra, Nys?"

"She was out at the river cleaning laundry, Lena. I told you this already."

"But why isn't she _here? _Everyone else is here—it's breakfast. Why isn't she here?"

Nyssa sighed and rubbed her back to comfort her sister. "I don't know, Lena. Do you want to bring some food to her?"

Helena nodded, and the two girls started wrapping meat in a cloth for Petra.

Ivor looked up from his place around the fire and watched his cousins. His eyes slid toward the empty space next to Helena. Curious, he glanced across the dining chamber to where the other servants ate. When he didn't see her among them, he narrowed his eyes and quietly excused himself from breakfast. He didn't see Adviser Nuel glaring at him.

* * *

"It's _wet," _Ritta growled as she held out her sabre cat pelt. "It's _dripping _it's so wet! Why isn't it groomed yet?"

Petra twisted her fingers and stared at her lap. "It needs to dry first, Huntress Ritta. I-I can't help it if it's overcast today."

Ritta's eyes flashed and she knelt by Petra. She grabbed her chin and dug her fingers in the bruises her father left. Petra gasped and bit her lip hard enough to draw blood. "Don't you talk back to me like that, _servant." _She wrenched Petra's face this way and that and growled, "I asked to have my pelt and arm-guard cleaned before the morning hunt. And _what _do I find in my chambers? _Nothing. _Not only was I left scrounging around for makeshift furs, but I missed the hunt!"

Ritta hissed and shoved Petra backward. She towered over her and spat, "All because _you _can't do your chores fast enough! Wait until my father hears about this, you—" Ritta whirled around when she heard someone padding toward them. Her face fell when she saw it to be _him _of all pack members. "Hunt-Brother Ivor!"

He glanced between Petra and Ritta, and narrowed his eyes at the huntress. "Ritta."

Ritta swallowed and cleared her throat. She looked at Petra and glared at her. Petra ducked her head and sat herself up. She frowned at her dress when she saw the crushed mountain flowers staining the fabric. She must have toppled the mortar when she fell.

"Hunt-Brother, I was just telling this servant that it is inexcusable—"

"_This servant _has a name," Ivor said.

"Please, Brute Ivor, it's fine," Petra murmured. She refused to make eye contact with either him or Ritta. "I-I was tardy in returning Huntress Ritta's pelt and arm-guard, and she startled me, just as you did the other day." She put her hands in her lap and clutched the fabric of her dress. "I fell."

Ritta's eyes widened before they narrowed into tiny slits. Her expression softened and she smiled at Ivor. "I didn't mean to frighten her, Hunt-brother. Petra's so clumsy, isn't she?" Ritta laughed and smiled at Petra, though with her back to Ivor, he couldn't see the warning in her eyes. "I'll come later for my pelt. Do clean yourself up, Petra; I'd hate for your dress to be ruined."

Petra nodded, and she and Ivor watched as Ritta left them. When she was gone, Ivor sat and turned his piercing stare toward her. She twisted her fingers and squirmed.

"You are a horrible liar, Petra," he said.

"I-I'm sorry?"

"Why did you not retaliate? She did you wrong, and you let her."

Petra seemed to shrink even more. "It is not my place as a servant to—"

"Rubbish," he growled. "It's _anyone's_ place to protect themselves. You're a servant, Petra, not prey to be slapped about."

"If only those words were true," she murmured. She wrapped her arms about herself when she heard him inhale. "I-I'm sorry, Brute Ivor."

"Don't—"

"Petra! Oh, Petra!" Helena chirped as she came running toward the riverbank. She beamed when she saw Petra, and if Nyssa hadn't grabbed her shoulders, she would have barreled the woman over.

Nyssa glanced between her cousin and Petra. Helena squirmed in her grip and held out a bundle toward Petra. "We brought you food, Petra! Elk thighs!"

Petra smiled and smoothed Helena's hair. "Thank you, Helena sweet."

Helena grinned and giggled. "You're welcome." Her mouth gaped open when she saw the goop of mountain flowers smeared on her friend. "Petra, what happened to your dress? It's—"

"It's nothing," she said. "Just a small accident."

Ivor frowned.

Nyssa kept her eyes on him and noted he hadn't taken his eyes off of Petra yet. "Helena and I can gather you some more flowers, if you want. It'll save you some time," she added when Petra looked ready to protest.

Helena beamed and stood up and down on the balls of her feet. "Can we, Petra? I want to help!"

With a sigh, Petra nodded, and the two girls hurried off into the forest, Helena squealing and giggling all the while. Petra smiled at their retreating forms before she remembered Ivor. She blushed and hung her head, wishing that she had longer hair to hide her red cheeks.

"You will not eat?"

"There's much work to be done, Brute Ivor."

He quietly picked a blade of grass out of her hair. She bent away from his touch, and when the silence between them became too uncomfortable for her liking, she started scrubbing another garment with the little soap she had left.

"You haven't finished my trousers yet?" he asked quietly.

She flinched, and he saw her blush deepen. "I-I haven't had the opportunity to, Brute Ivor. Forgive me—I know you prefer having your clothes done early and—"

"It's fine," he whispered.

She bit her lip and started rinsing the tunic out. "I'll have it done by the second meal, I just need to finish with this and then—"

"Petra," he sighed, "it's fine. Take your time."

"Y-yes, Brute Ivor."

He furrowed his brow. "That wasn't an order, Petra."

She hunched her shoulders, and he was reminded of a turtle scrunching back into its shell. "I know." She offered a small grin his way, and it only grew when his expression softened. But that moment was short-lived.

He reached for her face, not stopping even when she flinched. His fingers held her chin, and he tilted her face this way and that to have a better view of the bruises. "_Who?" _he snarled.

Petra whimpered and tried to pull her head back, but he only tightened his grip on her chin. Her eyes watered when his fingers dug into the bruises. "It was an—"

"If you say _accident, _Petra," he warned. She chanced meeting his eyes, but wished she hadn't when she saw the disgust in them.

She swallowed and touched his wrist with her fingertips. "Brute Ivor—"

"_Petra."_

"You're hurting me," she whispered.

Ivor withdrew his hand and stared at the new marks he left on her pale skin. He tried to brush his fingers against the bruises, but she ducked her head and tucked her chin into her chest.

"Please," she whimpered.

"Petra, I—"

"Please don't touch me, Brute Ivor," she managed to squeak out. His arm fell to his side, and he could only stare at her, his limbs feeling like lead.

"We have the flowers, Petra!" Helena said as she and her sister came bounding back to the riverbank. "We found so many of them—" She cut herself off and swung her eyes between Ivor and Petra.

Nyssa glared at her cousin and pursed her lips. She set the flowers down beside Petra.

Petra did her best to smile at the girls. "Thank you, both of you," she whispered.

Nyssa nodded and said, "We should clean your dress, Petra."

"No, it can wait—"

"No," Ivor said. He stood and looked away from her. "See to yourself first."

Petra bit her bottom lip to keep it from trembling. "Am I that wretched, Brute Ivor?"

He snapped his head toward her and opened his mouth to speak, but he was interrupted as one of his Hunt-brothers came jogging toward him.

"Brother Ivor!" he said.

Ivor didn't turn to acknowledge him and merely said, "Askel."

Askel smiled and nodded his head at Nyssa and Helena. His grin faltered when he saw Petra. "Serf-Sister Petra?"

Ivor growled and blocked his view. "You wanted to see me, Askel?"

Nyssa stood and hurried over to them. "I should find my bow and leathers. You're going to mentor me today, yes, Ivor?"

"No," he said. "You can miss today's practice."

"But—"

"Tomorrow, Nyssa."

She hung her head but didn't make another complaint. She slunk back to Petra and Helena.

Askel tore his eyes away from Petra and followed Ivor away from the riverbank. "Brother Ivor—is she well?" He looked over his shoulder at Petra and then back to Ivor. "She looks close to tears, Brother Ivor."

"She's fine," he said with a hint of a snarl in his voice.

Askel frowned and prodded further with, "But her cheeks are all blotchy and her eyes are—"

"_Askel." _

He bowed his head and let Ivor usher him back into their mountain. "I see."

* * *

"Golly," Francis said as he watched Isben continue to vomit. "What did you _eat _this morning?"

Isben tried to glare at him, but he gagged and spat a long string of Divines-knew-what out of his mouth.

Shêza huffed and kicked a skull away from her. "Pathetic little Thalmor spawn," she muttered to herself.

When Isben seemed like he was done, Francis helped him up to his feet. "You sure you can walk, Dragonborn?" He wrapped an arm around Isben's waist, keeping him from falling. "Please don't get any barf on me. Ladies like me the way I am."

Isben nodded, and slowly, they walked toward the stairwell at the end of the chamber.

"Oy, Scary Lady! You coming, or are you admiring my backside?" Francis swung his hips and laughed when he heard her growl. "Stare all you want. My cheeks appreciate it." Shêza balled her hands into fists and hissed at Francis. He chuckled and said, "Want to know what else they like?"

"_No, I don't," _she growled.

Francis dropped his voice an octave and moaned, "_Spankings." _

"Oh, I'll _give _you a spanking, you foul, potty-mouthed snake," she snarled.

"Dragonborn! Move faster! She's gaining on us—_eep!" _Francis left Isben and hurried away from Shêza. Isben groaned and held his stomach as he watched her chase him around the chamber.

"We can talk about this," Francis said with a laugh. He darted around her back to Isben and used him as a shield. "Dragonborn, _help! _She's going to eat me, and not in the way I'd prefer!"

She tried to find a way around Isben, but Francis kept pulling him this way and that to match her moves. She hissed and glared through Isben to Francis. "Slithering _coward." _

"It isn't cowardice," Francis said from behind Isben, "it's called protection." Carefully, he walked backward up the stairwell and across the bridge into the next chamber. "Do you want me to sing to you? Will that help?"

Shêza screeched and tried to take a swipe at him, but she had to stop her swing when he moved Isben. Francis chuckled, then shoved Isben into Shêza. The thief strolled into the chamber, indifferent to the tangle of limbs behind him. He whistled and stared at the cavern. "And would you look at that? _Treasure." _In the center of the room was a large chest, and he walked toward it. "See, this is all inviting and all—like a bare-breasted wench—but there's always a catch. It's never _this _easy—except in brothels. No names or backstory needed."

Isben tried to disentangle himself from Shêza, but she wasn't making it easy, given that she was hissing and clawing at him.

"Get off of me, you Thalmor twit—"

"Stop it already, would you?" He frowned and pinned her beneath him. "All you ever do is _insult _me. Why are you so... so...!" He waved his hand in the air, as if trying to search for the correct word. Huffing, he stood and followed Francis, but was pulled back to the ground when Shêza tackled him.

"Now, see this string right at the corner here?" Francis asked over his shoulder. Behind him, Shêza and Isben struggled to gain the upper hand. They rolled about the ground, snarling and swatting at each other. "This stringy thingy is a trigger. Now, we just snip this thing right here, and _voila!" _Francis beamed when he disarmed the trap on the chest. "And then we're free to pick the chest's lock! Need a skilled touch though. Lockpicks are dainty things. Need fingers suited to sliding in tight spaces, you see."

Shêza darted to her feet, pulling Isben with her, and slammed him back against a wall. They panted and stared each other down with glares, fisting their hands in their clothing and hair to halt any other attacks. Her eyes widened when she realized just what kind of wall she had him pinned to, and she watched as the tendrils came creeping out of the stonework and into his mouth.

"Junk, junk, more junk—_ooh, septims!" _Francis clapped his hands and pocketed the gold he found in the chest. He gawked when he saw lines of light seep from a stone wall and into Isben. "Whoa there, Dragonborn!" He sprinted over to them and pried Shêza off of him. She hissed and swatted his hands away from her person when he tried to sneak a grope.

Francis stared dumbly as the tendrils faded. Isben sank to his knees and rubbed his forehead. Francis cleared his throat and shifted on his heels. "A-are you alright?"

Isben groaned.

"Oh, I see," Francis said. He knelt beside him and blinked. "What does it feel like?"

"Like lightning, ripping through my body, all the way to my toes. Then it... it shoots to my brain, something pops and—"

"Whoa, whoa, whoa, Benny Boy. The wall gave you an orgasm?"

Isben sighed and kneaded his temples. "No, that's not—"

"Huh." Francis put his hands on his hips and stared at the wall. "I wish magical walls would give _me _an orgasm." His eyebrows shot up and he grinned. "Now isn't that an idea?" He hugged the wall and pouted when nothing happened. "Maybe there's a trick to it? Oh, I see. Need to thrust a bit, yes?"

Shêza slapped her forehead and growled. "Stop acting like a dog in heat!"

"Why? I'm not rubbing against you, am I? Relax, lady." Francis looked over his shoulder at her. "Unless you're starting to feel the same way I am," he leered with a cheeky grin.

"Why, _you—"_

"It isn't working, Dragonborn! How'd you do it? Maybe... charge it a bit?" Francis started slamming his entire body into the wall.

"Francis—"

"It—won't—work—"

"_Francis—"_

Francis huffed and threw himself at the wall again, but stopped when he heard something groan and crack above him. He looked up at the ceiling and scrambled for cover when rock started to fall. "_Oy, it's the climax!" _

Isben yanked Shêza down to the floor. She hissed, but had no time to complain, as he tucked her head into his neck and shielded her body with his as rock pelted the floor around them. He heard Francis shout something, but couldn't make out his words over the din of the collapse. When the rock finally settled, Francis coughed and gagged on the dust.

"And _what _a climax! There she blows!" He laughed and shook his hair free of dust. "Isn't that right, Dragonborn?" When he didn't receive an answer, he frowned and called out again. "Benny? Ben Ben?" Francis whimpered and sniffed the rubble. "Please don't be dead—we just met! You haven't given me enough time to steal anything of real worth from you! Alright, maybe I snatched your coin purse when you were puking, but that hardly counts!"

"_Get your hand off of my—"_

_"_It's not on your—"

"_Yes, it is!"_

Isben pursed his lips and tried to move his hand off of Shêza's armpit. The rubble around him lodged it in place, and he winced when a rock sliced his elbow. "I'm stuck."

Francis climbed over fallen rock and started digging through the debris. He grinned and clapped his hands when he saw Shêza and Isben unharmed. "Ah, you survived, and—_ooh, _I see where that hand is, Dragonborn."

Shêza tried flailing her limbs, but to no avail. "Don't you even—"

Francis whistled and laughed when Isben's ears turned pink. "I've to write this one down: grope woman during rockslide. Ben, you and I need to hit a tavern one of these days."

Isben hid his face in Shêza's shoulder. "It's on her armpit," came his muffled reply.

"Well, give it a few squeezes to make sure," Francis said. He cowered a bit when Shêza nearly howled. "Touch-y." He smirked and added, "Touchy feely, touchy feely. Ah, but I suppose I should help. No good just _watching _this awkward moment—it'll start making my trousers feel awkward. And we don't want _another _orgasm, do we?" He shook his head. "Dear Dibella, no we don't. It's too soon for one. Need to give a man time to collect himself and—"

"FRANCIS!"

Francis chuckled and scratched the back of his neck. "Ah, right." He started pulling away rock, and eventually, Isben had enough room to climb off of Shêza. Once he was freed, she sprung to her feet and smacked him across the face.

"If you ever touch me again with those Thalmor-infested hands of yours—"

"So I was just supposed to let you die?"

She knitted her brows together and lifted her chin up. "I didn't ask a _Thalmor _for help, nor would I ever."

"He's Thalmor?" Francis eyed Isben up and down and tilted his head to the side in thought. "He doesn't look Thalmor to me. There's no air of arse-twitching superiority about him." He circled Isben, paused, then swatted his bum. Isben jumped and pushed Francis away from him. "See? He's no Thalmor. He would have roasted me alive just now."

"I'm afraid to ask if you have experience with this," Isben said with a nervous laugh.

"Oh, yes," Francis said. "Those tall Altmer women just can't resist petite Francis. Fortunately, I'm not proportional." He waggled his eyebrows.

Shêza scoffed and folded her arms. "Yes, your pinkie finger is bigger than your clod."

Francis gasped and took a step back. "My pride is forever wounded! That's it. Dragonborn, you, me, drinks, tavern, _women. _And _you," _he sneered at Shêza, "are not invited."

Isben raised his hand. "I'll pass on that, Francis."

"If I didn't know any better, I'd wager you'd enjoy a good roll with some cheap, barbaric _whore," _Shêza spat. "Then you could grope _her _breast all you wanted to!"

"Then you obviously _don't _know better," Isben yelled. He threw his hands in the air and stumbled over the rubble to put some distance between them. "Don't just stand there, Francis! Find a way out!"

Francis pouted and tapped his foot at Shêza. "Now you made him cranky. And now he's taking it out on _me. _I'm innocent! Mostly." He muttered beneath his breath, but set to work.

"And give me back my coin purse!"

* * *

"Fresh air," Francis breathed out when they exited the Barrow. He spread his arms out and inhaled the morning air. "Do you smell that? That's called Nature, courtesy of Kynareth. Fills a man's bones with purpose and peace! And also the urge to pee," Francis added. He hurried off to relieve himself, and when he rejoined Isben and Shêza, he frowned at the two of them. "I can see you two are especially happy."

They refused to look at each other and fixed their gazes at the ground.

"Hmph," Francis huffed. "I feel like I'm walking in enemy territory." He crossed his arms and shrugged his shoulders. "Well, it was nice adventuring with you, Dragonborn. I'll be taking my leave now—"

"You're going?" Isben asked.

Francis laughed and raised an eyebrow. "What, you thought I would stay? I took the opportunity, spent it, and now I'm done. I've to get back to Riften. Have a few... _errands _to run there." Francis nodded and toed the ground with his boot. "And I kept my end of the bargain, didn't I? I helped you survive the Barrow, I kept the stone. All is well."

Isben looked Francis over before saying, "Why did you want to come into the Barrow with me? There was hardly any treasure in there."

Francis threw his head back and laughed. "Oh, that's _cute, _Dragonborn. Isn't it obvious? _Opportunity."_

"For what? To say you almost killed the Dragonborn by humping a wall?"

The thief scratched his jaw and had the decency to look sheepish. "Well, I wasn't planning on _that _to happen—not that I'm complaining, you see." He shrugged. "Maybe I'll see you around? If you ever find yourself back in Riften, that is. Better watch your purse, though. I'll probably snatch it." He turned and started walking away, offering a wave over his shoulder. "_Ciao _for now, Dragonborn!"

Francis stopped dead in his tracks when he heard something faint on the wind. The temperature dropped considerably, and he turned to look at Isben. "Please tell me that was your stomach."

Isben shook his head.

"Huh." Francis shrugged. "Must have been noth—"

Another roar sounded, and soon the Dragon swooped so low to the ground that Francis had to dive for cover. "_Holy Divines and their genitals!" _

Shêza had her bow out and began shooting arrows at the Dragon while Isben helped Francis to his feet. Francis grabbed Isben's arm and whimpered, "W-w-what was th-that—"

"Stay calm, Francis—"

Francis smirked and held up Isben's coin purse. "Come on now, Benny, you're making this too easy for me."

Isben clicked his tongue and snatched his purse back. "Sneak-thief."

"Naturally," Francis grinned. He climbed back to his feet, and the two of them searched the skies for the Dragon. "How do we kill these nasties, exactly?"

"Spill its blood," Shêza answered.

Francis rolled his eyes. "Oh, _very _helpful." He cracked his knuckles and shook his hands out. "I don't suppose I can hurt it through all those scales? Sort of like an Argonian on skooma, no?"

The Dragon flew back toward them and landed near the Barrow. It roared at the three of them, and shards of ice shot out from its mouth. Francis darted around the beast while Shêza and Isben dove for cover.

"They can breathe _ice?" _Isben shouted.

"Apparently," she said back. When the icicles stopped flying around their cover, Shêza shot out and released an arrow. The Dragon recoiled when the arrow lodged near its eye. She hissed in frustration and aimed another shot at it.

Francis pummeled his fists in the Dragon's leg, cursing when he realized he wasn't doing any serious damage. He leapt on all fours when the Dragon tried swatting a wing at him. Francis eyed the joints in its wing, and soon, he was trying to dislocate the bones.

Isben yelled for Shêza to take cover when ice started forming around the Dragon's jaws. She wasted no time sprinting out of range of its breath, but this left Isben as a target. He Shouted at the Dragon, _Fus _interrupting its own Shout, and then swung his sword at the beast.

"What was _that?" _Francis shouted.

"Keep your mind in the fight!" Shêza hissed. She used her dagger to tear into the Dragon's side, wrenching it this way and that when the scales refused to give.

Isben jumped back when the Dragon tried taking a chunk out of his arm. When the Dragon snapped its jaws again, he brought up his sword to defend himself. He wasn't planning on the Dragon snapping his sword in half.

Panicking, his body froze for a moment—a moment that was enough time for the Dragon to finish him off.

"_Got it!" _Francis shouted in glee. He yanked and tugged on the exposed bone of the Dragon's wing until he popped it out of place, exposing it further. The thief grunted and used his weight to snap the end of the frail bone off.

The Dragon shrieked and swung its tail at Francis, catching him in the chest. Francis was sent backward in the ruins of the Barrow, and the Dragon trampled toward him. Shêza scrambled out of the way of its feet and screamed at Isben when he charged toward the Dragon. He leapt onto its tail and wrapped his arms around it. The Dragon dragged him along, not seeming to be bothered by him.

Isben swore and managed to choke out another Shout. "_Fo!" _The Dragon swung its head around when ice shards started pelting its tail. It roared and swished its tail to and fro, trying to dislodge Isben from it. Arrows started raining upon the beast, keeping it from attacking Isben. It tried to take to the skies when the guards of Ivarstead charged up the hill, but with its broken wing, it wasn't going anywhere.

Its eyes met Isben's, and he smiled when he saw the fear in its white eyes. He gasped when his vision went black, and for a moment, he could only see the orange and white, staring at him. He blinked, and the image was gone.

The Dragon roared one last time before it collapsed. The guards shouted jeers and hoots when blood pooled around the Dragon. They pierced their swords through its scales, laughing harder when more blood gushed out. Isben crawled off of its tail and slowly made its way to its head.

Its eyes followed him, and he pinched the bridge of his nose when he realized it wasn't dead. Close to death, but still holding on.

"This is wrong," he muttered.

The Dragon blinked at him. "_Ahkrin, Dovahkiin."_

Isben shook his head. "What—"

"_Ahkrin ahrk Aaz." _It blinked one more time before its flesh started to peel away. Isben braced himself when the tendrils seeped into his skin. He felt the dam release, the power flowing into the Word he'd gained from Shroud Hearth's Wall. The Dragon Soul brought the Word to life, gave it a form and breath in his throat and mind.

_Kaan._

Images of Maurice and the Eldergleam came to mind, as well as the little sapling Kynareth graced the pilgrim with. Isben blinked, and the images disappeared.

The guards gasped and murmured to each other as they watched this phenomenon. Francis rubbed his back as he made his way toward Isben. He let off an appreciative whistle and clapped his hands. "Well, I'll be," the thief said. "Two orgasms in a _row? _Dragonborn. I _need _to find the artist of those posters and have a good talk with them."

* * *

Francis decided to travel with the Dragonborn and his ever-lovely companion back to Whiterun. "Maybe I can sell these bones," the thief had said with a shrug. "Probably worth something."

They camped a small ways outside of Ivarstead. With Francis so popular at the Vilemyr Inn, Isben didn't want to chance Wilhelm passing a kidney stone if they stayed the night. That, and Isben wanted nowhere near Shêza.

Francis plucked a blade of grass and brought it to his lips. He started playing a one-pitched tune while Isben watched Shêza stand with her back to them at the far side of camp.

"Best leave her be," Francis said. "You know what they say: Oblivion hath no fury than a woman scorned."

"I did nothing," Isben said. "Absolutely nothing."

* * *

Ivor collapsed in his furs and let out a breath. It'd been an exhausting day: the winter-season would soon hit, and the Hedera Black-Coats needed to dry all the jerky they could hunt. He felt as if his body creaked and groaned with the tiniest movement he made. His back ached something awful, and his shoulders felt like they would snap at any moment. He hadn't seen Petra since that morning, and he was too exhausted to seek her out.

He glanced to his side and smiled when he saw his patched trousers lying there. There was a rustle at his divider, and he sat himself up—_creak, creak, groan—_on his elbows.

Nuel let himself into Ivor's chambers and chuckled when he saw him trying to stand from his furs. "Easy, Ivor. I understand you had quite the day today. I think we know each other well enough to forgo formalities."

Ivor nodded, but didn't lie back down. "Nuel. I didn't expect you to be up at this hour."

"Nor did I expect the same of you, dear boy." Nuel grinned and glanced at the trousers. "I see Petra took care of her chores. Are they satisfactory?"

"Her work is always satisfactory."

"A shame she cannot do better," Nuel sighed. "These females are just a _nuisance, _aren't they, Ivor? To have them all pining after you must be tiring."

Ivor narrowed his eyes. "Ignoring them is a simple solution, Nuel."

"Ah, but you are young still—forgive this old man. You do not see the beauty of having so many admirers. Surely one of them has your fancy?"

"I haven't thought it significant that I find a mate."

Nuel chuckled and folded his hands behind his back. "Ah, the same attitude your father had. You know, he was a great hunter. As was your mother, Selena."

"Garald has told me the same."

Nuel nodded his head and paced the room. "Your mother was the best huntress we had—apart from Verena, of course. Garald would never say which one was better than the other. But she kept our pack's bellies full, she did."

"I only have vague memories of her, Nuel. Most of them... are not pleasant."

Nuel sighed and hung his head. "Yes, the Rattles. 'Tis a shame, is it not? If only Petra's parents could have saved her."

"They did all that they could for her," Ivor said. "In the end, it was a matter of making her comfortable. The disease was too far developed to cure."

"Is that what you've been told, dear boy?" Nuel arched an eyebrow. "I suppose they _would _tell you that, wouldn't they?"

Ivor frowned. "What do you mean? Garald has never spoken anything but the truth to me before."

"Oh, all these lies to ensure peace within the pack. It's bothersome, isn't it, Ivor? A Brute of your age and caliber shouldn't have to undergo these trials. I suppose I ought to be the one to tell you, dear boy." Nuel sat in front of Ivor and leaned toward him. "What if I said your mother could have been saved?"

* * *

**Attention, dear readers. There seems to be a disease going about. It's very contagious especially to females. It's called 'Ivor-fever.'**

**Translations:**

**Ahkrin: Courage**

**Ahkrin akhr Aaz: Courage and Mercy**


	19. Stand Anew, Fall Backward

Skyrim belongs to Bethesda, but any OC/plot twist or idea you do not recognize belongs to me. Enjoy!

* * *

When her parents were still alive, Petra followed at her father's heels and clung to her mother's skirt, always present when they tended to their duties. They were servants: humble, dutiful, and seeing to the pack's needs. When they made it to Skyrim, hardly a scrap of clothing on them, they found their way to the Hedera Black-Coats.

She didn't remember how her father knew the way, but she remembered her mother always looking at him with a worried yet understanding face. Something about his eyes made everything clear to her. They just... _glowed. _With some sort of light. Petra remembered never looking her father in the eye until they reached the Black-Coats.

But she did remember setting foot into Black-Coat territory. The pack had cornered them, the males snarling and trying to shoo them away. The females hushed and hissed at them when they finally saw the strange trio for what they were: a family, dirty and in need of sanctuary.

Their Alpha Male, Garald, and his Alpha Female, Verena, had quieted the commotion. She recalled thinking how kind he looked and how beautiful his mate was. There was something about the two that defined strength and support. Her own parents had the same air about them—there was never a doubt that they loved and cherished each other and their family.

Garald and Verena had let them stay, but he could not risk upsetting his pack by letting them, outsiders, assimilate into their way of life fully. For example, her father was not permitted to hunt with other males. Years later, he wished that Garald had let him. He frequently had shooting pains in his knees from sitting on them so often, and just once he'd have liked to have gone on a hunt before it was too late.

This rule also applied to his children—specifically Petra. They were to provide for the pack, as they would provide a home for them. Her mother and father accepted the terms without question, for what else could they have done? Their Petralaine was tired and still in shock after the raid, and Mother was worried that at any moment, they would be discovered and slaughtered.

And so they joined the Hedera Black-Coats, always showing their thanks to Garald. Her father and mother were healers—Father especially—and her mother knew more than a little about tidying up and fine needlework. Petra stayed with them wherever they went, never letting them stray from her sight. From this, she learned. She helped them when she could; most of the chores were too strenuous for a little girl with only six summers on her. But mostly she stayed with them because she was afraid of the other children.

There was one boy in particular that frightened her. He was tall for his age, and it was obvious that he would be long-legged and broad-shouldered when he was a man. He had opal-green eyes framed by the thickest of lashes (she remembered being jealous) and always had a calculating look to him. But she noticed that he was a leader: the other boys followed him, copied him, tried to gain his attention.

The first time she officially met him, for she had seen him on the day they arrived, she was on her way to the riverbank to refill bowls of water for her father (she preferred assisting in alchemy rather than mending a tear), when something, or some_one_, jumped out of a tree and landed on her.

Again, that calculating look. He peered at her, tilting his head this way and that, as if trying to understand something. She wanted to scream, to cry, to run away, but her body froze and refused to cooperate with her frantic thoughts.

He was curious about this little girl with the hair like fire. He'd never seen red hair before and was intrigued by the flames on her head. Did they burn? Were they warm? Why were they red and not black or a dark brown like everyone else's? Her parents had red hair, too: her father had a burnt cinnamon color mane while her mother's hair was a dark and rich auburn.

He crawled off of her and sat on his haunches, still studying her. She was small and frail-looking, like a newborn deer. He'd seen newborn deer, all limbs and joints and unsteady on their feet. But she looked alright; looked like a nice sort of person. And she smelled fine, too—quite so, actually, like red mountain flowers.

Her father smelled like the flowers, too, as well as other herbs. He was a fine healer and an asset to the pack in the winter months. He kept himself busy grinding ingredients and storing away potions for later use, always insisting that one could never keep enough supply of potions. He had strong hands, stained and calloused from years of work, but those hands were as gentle as a butterfly when he held his daughter in his arms.

He was jealous. His own father never laughed or praised him for something frivolous. Just the other day, this little tomato-head girl had picked a flower for her father, and he'd scooped her up in his arms and held her high in the air, chuckling and tickling her sides. No: his own father was too convinced that a boy with eleven summers should already be on the hunt and learning to stand on his own two feet. Nothing he ever did impressed his father. He tried to keep tall and hunt—he couldn't do much better than rabbit, and even then, that was rare—but seeing the other children scratch markings on the cave walls, play in the river, climb trees; he wanted to join them. He _yearned _to join them. To learn how to play a hand-carved flute, to skip around the fire.

His mother indulged him in these fantasies once in a while, when his father was away on a hunt. He disapproved of her methods, saying that she was 'softening' him and that it wasn't the 'proper' way a male should behave.

But this girl, this _outsider, _was free to laugh and skip and draw and splash as she pleased. But not _him, _a pack-member born into the Hedera Black-Coats. It wasn't _fair, _and it wasn't _right. _Her parents were _servants—_they didn't even hunt! Her father wasn't like his father. He couldn't hunt a bear or mammoth or sabre cat. All he did was crush herbs.

Petra remembered the boy crying until he had no sobs left when her father had carved him a flute for his name-day. He'd held the flute so tightly, she thought he'd break it, and she could tell he wanted to hug her father. But he only stood, shoulders quaking and almost folding in on themselves, and nodded his head up and down. He had to bite his lip when her father chuckled and tousled his hair.

Oh, Petra remembered many things. She remembered braiding Shêzanaré's hair, Verena smiling at her mate, Ivor playing his flute for her (and playing horribly out of tune), her mother laughing when her father danced her around their shared quarters.

She remembered the day her parents died. She remembered the boy with the opal-green eyes, now taller and more broad-shouldered, trying to express his condolences. He didn't make it past the first syllable before she screamed at him to leave her be.

She also remembered the workload she inherited when her parents left. Laundry, knitting, sewing, cleaning, bathing children, brewing medicines, preparing meals. It had seemed so _simple _when her parents were still alive. There was always joy to distract them all from their work. But now those responsibilities were all hers, and there was no joy, no distraction. The servant quarters were empty. No dancing, no laughter, no bedtime stories. Even the boy with the long legs and broad shoulders left her be, as he was almost a young man and had certain expectations to fulfill.

It was just her: Petralaine.

But never did she remember feeling such fatigue as she did now. Petra had collapsed in her furs once her feet were done dragging her to her quarters. The other servants were asleep—had been for hours. But no, not Petra—_never _Petra. Especially as of late, as she had many more chores to see to, what with Nuel breathing down her back.

_Nuel. _She never had such a busy week, and she hoped to Hircine that she never would again. It'd been one thing after the other: C_lean my Ritta's furs. Clean my Ritta's leathers. Oil Ritta's bow. You silly girl, have you seen her white pelts? No? Well, _find them.

There was hardly any time for herself—actually, there _was _no time for anything other than Nuel's wishes. Shêzanaré had returned, and with her she brought charcoal and a fresh book. Petra's fingers itched to draw, to capture him in a different pose, but there was no time. She was worked to the bone and had skipped meals the past few days. She was numb to the hunger; her body wanted sleep. When dawn finally broke, it felt like she'd only closed her eyes for a few seconds. There was no time to mourn this, as she awoke to something prodding her side.

"Get yourself up, girl, and be quick about it. There's much to do today, and I don't accept tardiness. Am I clear, _dear _Petra?"

She dragged herself out of her furs, rubbing her eyes and noting that her forehead was warm. When Nuel was finally done listing her chores for the morning (oh, she was sure he had more tucked away somewhere for afternoon and evening), she yawned and stumbled out of her quarters. It was still too early for the morning hunt, and the jerky they had needed to be salted and preserved. She sighed and ran a hand through her hair, grimacing when she felt how greasy it was. Perhaps a bath in the river was in order before she even tackled the first chore.

The water was cold and frigid: it made her skin shrivel, shiver, and nipples ache. She hated bathing this time of day. She hated bathing in the river _period. _She preferred boiling water and washing herself down with a cloth. She liked warm things: hot tea, cozy furs, sunbathing. _Not _the river.

And especially _not _the glare Ritta was giving her. Nuel's daugher stood on the riverbank, chin held up high in the air, staring her down. Petra swallowed and ducked under water. When she resurfaced, Ritta was still there, watching her.

She eyed the faint freckles on Petra's nose and shoulders. Ritta sniffed. Petra was the only one marked with those pockmarks. Unlike the other members of the pack, her skin refused to tan from sunlight. Instead, those _freckles _darkened and stood out against her pale skin. Shêzanaré was pale, too, and she refused to be cooped up for too long, but Petra's case was _different. _The freckles made her _different, _and so long as she was different, she was a threat.

But it could be used to her advantage.

Ritta grunted and stalked back into the mountain full of purpose. Petra sighed and swam back to the riverbank, certain she'd receive an earful from Nuel. As she pulled her dress back on, she paused and rubbed her temple when a sharp pain shot through it. She shook her head and proceeded to her first chore: washing Nuel's undergarments.

* * *

He'd been avoiding her for a week, trying his hardest to convince his cousins to spend their time elsewhere. Though _she _was not the one responsible for his mother's death, her parents were. They were monsters, the both of them, and it was only logical that their daughter, though kind and sweet on the outside, harbored a monster inside of her. She would become just like them, the traitors. She'd condemn him, he knew it.

And his uncle. Oh, his dear uncle whom he admired. He knew all along. It was all a game of power—_politics—_and Petra was a part of it. The main piece, even.

He couldn't let them win. No, not after he knew the truth. He'd been kept in the dark for too long to succumb now.

* * *

"And that's what I've been doing for the past week: filling Arcadia's shelves, delivering potions and ingredients to Farengar, and practicing my archery when I've the time." Isben took another swig from his tankard while Vimund laughed.

"Aye, it does sound a bit laid back for the Dragonborn. Where's Miss Shêzanaré? I'm not used to seeing you without her nearby."

Isben shrugged, the faintest of frowns on his face. "I haven't seen her in a week. I think she went to Riverwood, though. Don't know why. She said she wasn't from there, but I don't think she was being very truthful. But it isn't my business, nor do I want to know."

Vimund chuckled and leaned forward. "Had another squabble with her, did you? Aye, I can tell, don't try to deny it. Want to know something, lad? It's a woman's greatest secret: _nothing _is ever completely truthful."

"Oh, I believe that," Isben said. "Though I'm still debating whether she's a woman or a beast in disguise. Probably something with sharp teeth and claws."

Vimund frowned and swallowed. After his first official mission—fetching mead not included—he had a better, if not unnerving, understanding of the people he now lived with. To know that there was more than _one _werewolf in the Companions was unsettling. Just how many others had the lycanthropy? It was a difficult thought to cope with. In all of his years, he never encountered a werewolf, let alone anything _were. _It wasn't magic, but yet it wasn't mundane.

"I've been thinking," Isben continued. "It's safe to bet that I'm going to be sent to deliver more wares in the future. I was almost finished off by a bandit—my leg still feels funny."

"Aye?" Vimund smiled and finished the last of his mead.

He sighed and folded his hands together. "It's foolhardy, I know. I can't even wield a bow properly. But if it isn't too much trouble, could you teach me how to use a sword?"

Vimund chuckled and scooted his chair back. "Well, lad, we're in the Companions' courtyard already. Might as well make the most of it, aye?"

"I'll warn you, Vimund: I'm no good with it."

He waved his hand and shook his head. "Nothing better than an honest student. Now, then. Pick your feet up and let's get started."

* * *

_"_Now _this," _Francis said as he held up his tankard of Argonian Ale, "is the good stuff. Not like the piss Hulda's selling. Oh, sweet Dibella, is it _piss."_

Brenuin almost choked on his ale when he laughed. He spluttered, some of the ale dripping down his chin, but managed to guffaw and slap his knee. This little man—Francis, he called himself—had been the greatest solution to his drinking problem: find more ale. Brenuin had been suspicious of the man at first (he looked like a stealing sort), but he couldn't have had a better drinking buddy.

Francis's cheeks were flushed a light pink, and he laughed quietly while he savored his ale. "The stuff here's worse than Keerava's piss. Thank Dibella for this bottle." His eyes drifted toward the door when an attractive woman let herself into the inn. His eyebrow rose as he followed her movements. He wasn't the only one looking, though.

Mikael, a bard with decent talent, waved her over to his table, and the two of them set to talking as if life-long friends. Francis excused himself from the bench he shared with Brenuin (the beggar too drunk to really care) and sauntered over to Mikael's table. He leaned against it and smiled down at the two of them.

"Fine day, isn't it?" Francis asked with a sultry voice. Mikael's gaze immediately hardened.

"Yes, it is, and I'm afraid you're starting to ruin it," the bard said.

Francis laughed and turned his attention to the woman. "And what do you think? Is it not a fine day, miss?"

She smiled at him. "It is. It's been a wonderful day so far: the sky's without a cloud, the air is warm. A beautiful day in Whiterun, to be sure."

Francis's boot found hers under the table, and he lightly pressed down on hers. "I can think of something far more beautiful," he whispered, his voice like melted chocolate. She blushed and stammered, staring at the grain in the wood.

Mikael stood up from the table and pushed Francis back. "That's it; find yourself someone else to woo. Ysolda's one of _mine." _

Francis backed up with his hands raised. He chuckled and said, "Sorry there, sir. I mistook you as another young lady. Pardon." Before Mikael could say anything to defend his honor, Francis sashayed away into a vacant seat across from a fully armored, but fairly pretty Nord woman.

Never one to be dissuaded, Francis smiled at her, a charming and toothy grin. "I don't suppose _you're _one of his too, no?"

She glared at him and folded her arms over her chest. "I would stop while you're ahead, little man."

Francis laughed and folded his hands. "Oh, come now. You know what they say about a foul temper: stress. I know a few ways to _relieve _that—"

"Want to hear a little Nord wisdom, little man? You don't really know a woman 'til you've had a strong drink and a fistfight with her."

Francis's interest piqued at this, and not in a sexual manner. "Oh? Care to demonstrate?"

"You'd be dead in six seconds, little man."

He smirked and leaned back in his seat. "You seem rather confident in that."

"And why not?" she growled. "I can take on anyone in this city, bare-handed. Especially a little runt like you."

Francis pushed himself out of his seat and cracked his knuckles. "Wagers?"

"One hundred gold says I beat your manhood off."

His eyes flashed, and a feral grin split his lips. "_Oh, _I like that. Feisty. Well. You're on."

* * *

Isben eased himself in the tub at The Bannered Mare, sighing when the warm water met his aching muscles. He settled himself, then closed his eyes and leaned his head back. Vimund was an excellent trainer—far more rewarding than Shêza—but the training made him use every bone and muscle in his body. He knew that tomorrow, he'd hurt even more and probably be as stiff as a cripple.

He was just drifting off when he heard a knock. Prying one eye open, he blinked when he realized someone was knocking on his _window. _

"Benny? You in there?" Without waiting for him to unlock the window, there was a click, and then Francis hoisted himself into the room.

"What—Francis? Don't you know how to use a door? And _knock?"_

"I did knock! I just didn't wait for you," Francis said with a chuckle. "And the door. Right. Well, it's an interesting story. You see, I've been officially exiled from the inn, courtesy of Hulda downstairs. Funny thing, that."

"What did you do," he sighed, wondering how many people he had to apologize to.

"Well, I was minding my own business—_honest—_when this woman picked a fight with me. Naturally, I accepted the challenge, and well... she didn't take losing too well. Neither did the guards. By the way," Francis added as he pulled a crumpled note out from his boot, "this is for you. A courier delivered it to me. Well, not specifically _to me, _but you understand, yes? And I might have already read it."

Isben took the note and read it over. He ran a hand through his hair and frowned.

"So?" Francis pried. "You taking anyone with you? You know, I _love _feasts. Especially feasts in places where rich folk live."

"I don't think you're the sort of person the Jarl meant when he said 'may bring a guest,' Francis."

"Oh, don't spoil my fun! You'll make Little Francis feel bad. And I clean up nicely. Ask any woman in Riften." Francis shifted on the balls of his feet while Isben rose from the tub and dried himself off. "_Weeell? _I'd make an excellent guest! I can be... _guesty. _And the like."

"You won't stop until I agree, won't you?"

Francis shook his head. "No, I won't. I could go for some roasted pheasant, wine, sweet rolls—oh, Dibella, _sweet rolls! _They must be _divine _at Dragonsreach. And when no one's looking, I—"

"—won't go sneaking off to fill pockets," Isben finished. He threw on a pair of trousers and tunic.

Francis gasped and put a hand to his chest. "Who, _me? _You really think that I would _do _that? That I'm that type of—oh, good grief, fine. I won't steal. Much. Might take a few coins though. And a couple of gems. And maybe—"

"_Francis."_

The thief threw his hands in the air and pouted. "Fine, _fine. _We'll go, we'll dine with the Jarl and company, and leave. But please tell me you're not wearing _that."_

Isben picked at his tunic and avoided looking at him. "This is all that I have, and I don't have much coin."

Francis rolled his eyes. "We're going to dine with the _Jarl. _Not a peasant holding a meager get-together. Come on, Benny. That Belethor should still have his shop open. Won't have you dressed like a cobbler."

* * *

"Ivor has reported unwanted prowlers as of late," Garald said to his daughter. "Our kind. From other packs. They haven't initiated conversation, nor have they been wandering too close to the entrance of the mountain, but there's no doubt that they are keeping an eye on us."

"Can we not order a hunt party to confront them?" Shêza asked.

Garald shook his head and took another bite from his bear meat. His nephew certainly was gifted at hunting the beasts. "No, not until we know for sure if they are hostile or not. I don't want to start a fight over nothing, dear."

"So we wait while they plot right under our noses? Father, this is _our _territory. If they want to use it as a hunting ground, they need only ask."

"And what will I say as an answer? There are already the beginnings of Civil War, Shêzanaré. It'll be any day before troops start marching through Riverwood and our lands. The last thing I need is another pack to quarrel with." Garald sighed and shook his head. "And winter will soon hit. Game will be short, as it usually is."

Shêza took his hand in hers and squeezed it. "And for us to share such a small supply of it with outsiders will only be another problem, Father." She dropped her gaze. "I don't want to see Helena or Nyssa starve—"

Garald growled and narrowed his eyes. "They will _never _starve. Not while I'm Alpha." She didn't look away from him, but waited until he calmed and breathed his anger out. "Forgive me, dear. I did not mean to react in such a way. Sometimes I wish someone else was leading."

She offered a small smile and patted his hand. "You have two choices, Father. All you need to do is pick one."

He wiped his face and covered his eyes. "It sounds so simple, doesn't it? Like deciding what to hunt for a meal. Elk, bear, or mammoth?" Garald closed his hands over hers. "I want you to speak to Jarl Balgruuf, Shêzanaré. See if there is any way for us to split our rations to keep hunger at bay during winter."

She nodded and bowed her head. "I will see him immediately, Father."

"Rest, Shêzanaré. Evening is not the proper time to address the Jarl. See him in the morning, dear."

Shêza dropped her forehead to their clasped hands. "Please, Father. This news... it makes me restless. It'd be best if I hurried to find a solution."

"Haste makes waste, dear."

"So does idleness." She kissed his hand and stood. "I'll be back before morning. Please tell Nys and Helena. I think they wanted me to join them for a story-telling tonight."

Garald smiled, and his eyes twinkled. "Ah, yes. Helena requested Fenrisulfr tonight. Askel will be reciting it, I believe." He put his hands on his knees and pulled himself to his feet. "I think I'll attend. A child's story will bring me some peace of mind."

"Good night to you, Father."

"And to you, my dear. Be safe."

* * *

"Do you smell that?" Francis stopped Isben and stood on tiptoe. He took a few whiffs and made a sound of appreciation. "It smells _delicious. _Roasted goat, my favorite. Hope they have cranberry sauce. Or lingonberry. Divines, I love me some lingonberry."

Isben chuckled and continued walking up the steps to Dragonsreach. "Just don't eat everything on the table, alright?"

"I'll leave a few scraps for you. Just because I'm petite doesn't mean I don't know how to tuck away a good meal. Especially if it's goat. I _adore _goat. Loveliest ribs on Mundus."

Dragonsreach was filled with bustling servants hurrying to and fro the kitchens. A guard led Francis and him up the stairs to the throne room (after giving Francis a suspicious look), and had to wait for the Jarl. Francis eyed the dining tables, licking his chops as he spotted the roasted goat. "Oh, _Dibella." _He was practically drooling—_No, _Isben thought, _he _is _drooling._

Once Jarl Balgruuf was finished discussing with Proventus Avenicci, he made his way over to them. Isben noticed the scowl on his adviser's face, and could only guess as to what they were discussing. He'd heard that Jarl Balgruuf was in an unfortunate state of political turmoil: both the Empire _and _the Stormcloaks wanted Whiterun on their side, as it was in a convenient location and could act as a storage for supplies.

It was no mystery as to what side Proventus Avenicci, a warm- and true-blooded Imperial, wanted Balgruuf to take.

"And here he is: the Dragonborn. You look well. I trust there have been no more Dragon attacks?" Balgruuf asked.

Isben inclined his head. "It's an honor to see you in good health, Jarl. And as for the Dragon attacks, they were nothing I could not handle."

Francis frowned at this. He recalled almost being Dragon-chow and wanted to spank Isben for the lie.

"I... I see," Balgruuf said. His posture stiffened, but before Isben could have another word, he gestured toward the dining tables. "Come, Dragonborn. You and your company must be hungry. For tonight, there will be no talk of Dragons. Let us speak as Men."

Francis needed no more of an invitation before he sat himself right in front of the goat. He grinned at the other guests, ignoring their disgusted looks and Avenicci's disapproving glower. Isben sat by Balgruuf, Avenicci, and Farengar at the other end of the table.

Dinner was sublime: pheasant, horse meat, grain, salads, fruits, fresh bread, gravy sauce, and, of course, the roasted goat (though there was hardly any left, thanks to Francis). They spoke of pleasant conversations, and Isben wondered if this was what court-life was like: idle banter. Farengar explained some of his recent magicka experiments and alchemical brews which Isben took an interest in. The two alchemists exchanged suggestions on potions, but it was obvious that Farengar was more wizard than herbalist.

"So, what was it like in the University? I've never been there myself, but I've heard all about its wonders," Farenger said.

"It's an excellent resource," Isben agreed after taking a sip of wine. He swirled it in his glass before taking another sip. "Who makes this?"

"It's a Breton vintage," Avenicci said. "A _Château Y'quem. _It's splendid, is it not? No other wine can be sweet yet only have a touch of dry to it. Not even _Surilie _can compete with it."

"_Surilie _is a delicious brand as well," Isben said, "but I favor this more." A glance at the other side of the table told him that Francis _very _much enjoyed the wine, as he was working on his third bottle.

"Was your stay at the University pleasant, Dragonborn?" the Jarl asked, bringing his attention back to the topic at hand.

"Before the Thalmor invaded," he said. "After that, life was... difficult. Freedoms were taken away, laws were broken, prejudice, prejudice, prejudice. The University slowly became a school only for Mer and Thalmor."

"And the Empire?" Balgruuf asked. "Did they not retaliate?"

"With all due respect, Jarl Balgruuf, I do not think we would be in the midst of Civil War if they did."

"But the Emperor has done much to rectify that," Avenicci said in a hurried voice. "Why, he's working to limit Thalmor control in Cyrodiil this very moment! It's a fool who thinks he's cowering before the Thalmor."

"I'm foolish," Isben said. Avenicci frowned and wrinkled his nose at him. "I've been told that many times."

The Jarl stared into his tankard and licked his lips. "But is foolish wrong, Dragonborn?"

"That is not my place to say, Jarl Balgruuf."

"I value your opinion and words, Dragonborn. I would like to hear them."

Isben sighed and played with the food on his plate. "Truth to be told, Jarl, I do not know."

Avenicci smirked and neatly dabbed his mouth with a napkin. "Well, that certainly clears matters up, doesn't it, my Jarl?"

Balgruuf grunted before saying, "I would like if it you had a permanent residence here in Whiterun. The people take comfort when you are in my city, and I certainly do not mind having you here. In fact, I find it an asset. There is something... _good _to you, Dragonborn, and I value such a characteristic in court."

"Excuse me?" Avenicci and Isben asked at the same time.

"I'm decreeing you a Thane of Whiterun, Dragonborn: an honorable and beneficial position. It will become an official title once you have property here."

Isben blanched and stared dumbly at his plate. "I-I don't know what to say, Jarl. For one, I don't think I'm worthy of such a position. And I don't have enough coin to purchase a house; I'm staying at The Bannered Mare."

Balgruuf was about to say something, but laughter from the other end of the table broke his train of thought. He watched as the Dragonborn's guest threw his head back and guffawed with the rest of his guests. He'd never seen them drunk before, and judging by their flushed cheeks and obnoxious behavior, they were beyond comprehension.

"Forgive him," Isben said. He rubbed his forehead and added, "He was dropped as an infant."

"And what have we here?" Avenicci said when the grand double-doors opened. A familiar figure walked into the throne room of Dragonsreach, wearing a usual business-like expression. "What a disgrace! Disturbing the Jarl while he's dining! I know you and your people are _animals, _Shêzanaré, but to behave as such is unacceptable!"

Shêza glared at Avenicci, but her eyes quickly darted over to Isben. The two of them shared a blank look before her brow furrowed. She uttered a _hmph _before turning to address the Jarl. She offered a bow before saying, "Jarl Balgruuf, if I may speak with you—"

"You may," he said, "but briefly."

Avenicci scoffed and squirmed in his seat.

Shêza glanced around the throne room. "In private, my Jarl?"

"Here is fine, Shêzanaré. Now, please: do tell me what brings you at my door this late in the eve."

Shêza opened her mouth, then closed it. She bit her lip and shifted on her heels before settling her gaze on Isben. He folded his hands in front of him and wore a grin that was _too _pleasant to be sincere. "Yes, Shêzanaré, do tell us why you're here. It's a surprise to see you after you decided to disappear for a week. You had me _so _worried."

She hissed at him and spat, "You keep your mouth shut, you half-breed."

"And you, Shêzanaré," Avenicci said, sharing a sneer with Farengar, "will not address the Jarl's Thane in such a manner. Proper etiquette is expected at all times during court, and as this is still considered an address to the Jarl, you _will _behave yourself."

"If an animal _can _behave, that is," Farengar said. He smirked and murmured something to the Jarl. The Court Wizard laughed and looked at Shêza as if she was the biggest joke in all of Tamriel. Shêza bowed her head, her cheeks flaring with the desire to rip the wizard's throat out, but knowing that she couldn't. No, she had to lick these barbarians' feet to keep her family safe. She swallowed, still hearing Avenicci and Farengar chuckle and sneer at her. To Isben, she looked like a scolded puppy.

"Forgive me—"

"I believe it can wait until morning, Shêzanaré. Whatever your people need will just have to wait," Balgruuf said with a voice that brooked no argument.

"The Jarl has made his decision, Shêzanaré," Avenicci said. "Now, go scamper off like a good girl." She nodded her head mutely, her body trembling in rage, and looked back at Isben. He was startled by the raw anger in them, but what shook him the most was the tremendous hurt in her eyes. She walked out of Dragonsreach, Avenicci and Farengar sneering at her all the way to the doors.

Isben sighed before thanking the Jarl for the food and excusing himself from the table. He shivered when he met the chilly air and hurried after her. "Shêza!"

She ignored him and kept walking down the steps.

"Shêza, please stop!" She was halfway down the stairs before he caught up with her, and he grabbed her arm. She whirled around and smacked his hand away, her teeth bared and an unnatural glint in her eyes.

"_Keep your hands off of me, you filth!"_

"Shêza, please, I'm so—"

"I am not some _dog _who will go trotting back to its master after a worthless apology!" She jabbed her finger into his chest, making him take a step back. "You _stay away _from me, or by _Hircine, _I will rip your hands off and make you eat them!" She turned on her heel and stalked away, feeling her wereblood pulse in her veins. She could feel the beginnings of her change in her gums, and her chest was starting to ache. She needed relief of this stress, of the humiliation.

She needed this twat to leave her be. And of course, he never listened to her wishes.

"Just listen to me, won't you!" he called after her. "I'm sorry, Shêza! Shêzanaré, I am _sorry. _What more do you want me to do?"

"Stop-following-me," she growled.

"But you aren't listening!" He moved in front of her and blocked her path. When she tried to storm around him, he moved with her. "I know you're hurt—"

"Begone, _Thane," _she hissed. "I'm sure you have more important _courtly _matters to see to. Perhaps someone _else _to humiliate!"

"W-what? No, that's wrong! I'm not a Thane—_Shêza!" _She pushed him out of her way and was almost at the city gates when he took her arm and pulled her back. She growled a warning, not liking having his hand trapping her arm, and stared murder into his eyes.

"_Let. Me. Go."_

"I'm not a Thane," he said. "I'm just me: Isben. Isben, a half-Nord, half-elf alchemist from Cyrodiil who happens to be twatty and can't shoot arrows to save his life. I'm the son of a Thalmor, and that probably _does _make me as evil as them. I'm a coward for not rising up to my calling and wanting to flee to a secluded area." He closed his eyes and let out a breath that came out as a white puff in the chilly air. "And I'm a fool."

She stared at him, her mouth parted in disbelief.

"Please, forgive me," he whispered.

A long pause stretched between them, Isben still holding her arm in fear that she would walk away from him again. But the tension had left her body—somewhat—and her eyes had lost their ferocity. Instead, she looked passive and uncertain.

She looked away from him and shifted on her feet. "You aren't evil," she murmured.

He blinked and wore a confused expression, but whatever he was going to say died in his throat when he realized she wasn't wearing warpaint, and her hair was free about her shoulders. There was only the light from the torches by the gates, and even though it was faint, he could still see her face.

She didn't look like the Shêza he knew. There weren't fierce angles to her cheekbones from the paint, her eyes didn't look as sharp as steel from the color contrast between them and the warpaint. This woman—_woman—_was a stranger.

"You're... different," he said in a quiet breath.

She recoiled her head and frowned. "And you're stupid." She moved toward him, walking him further back into the Plains District. "And twatty. And annoying. And half-ish. And foolish. And _twatty." _She had him backed up against the well. She pried his fingers from around her arm and smacked his hand. "I should cut them off. You _humiliated _me."

"I'll move onto my hands and knees if I have to."

She looked away from him again, a hint of a smile on her mouth, and tugged on his thumb.

"Oh, I'd _love _to see that," Francis said from somewhere to the side. Isben and Shêza swiveled their heads toward him. "All that built up passion and frustration. _Woo. _Don't mind me. I'll just be here."

Isben's ears turned a bright pink, and his cheeks flushed. He moved away from Shêza and avoided making eye contact with the smug thief. "Th-that's not what I meant!"

"All that anger in the Barrow toward him feeling a breast was a hoax," Francis said. He shook his head and clicked his tongue. "I should have known!" He eyed Shêza and bit his lip. "You wouldn't mind treating Francis here, now would you?"

"Go rot in a hole, you swine," she hissed.

"Only if it's your—" He laughed when she stalked away from them and out of the city. "_Woo, _that was entertaining. By Dibella, I love ruffling her feathers. Wouldn't mind having my feathers ruffled by her either, if you know what I mean. All that warpaint hiding that pretty face. Now, to rid the poncho hiding all that _woman. _This will be difficult."

"I thought you were three bottles drunk," Isben said, still not looking at Francis.

He grunted and looked at him like he was insane. "Dragonborn. Really, now. I thought I told you this." He patted his pockets, and Isben threw his hands in the air when he heard the _chink _of septims. "The inebriated never notice when their pockets are picked. Not that I'm complaining; that wine was _divine. _We should buy a bottle. I have the money," he laughed.

Isben groaned and wiped his face.

"I couldn't help myself. Come on, let's celebrate, Benny. You, me, The Bannered Mare, and some ladies. I'll even pay your tab."

Isben held a hand up and shook his head. "No, but thanks. I'm retiring for the evening."

Francis put his hands on his hips and pouted. "What? You promised to a woman already?"

"No, nothing like that."

"Then what? Don't tell me you _actually _favor the Dragon-Lady? I don't know about yours, but she makes my penis shrivel. To the size of my pinkie. I don't like it, Dragonborn. Feels... _unhealthy."_

Isben shook his head. "No, I have no fancy toward her, but I do enjoy her company as a friend, as rare as her friendly moments are. And as far as I know, my penis is still in tact. You probably contracted something from a whore, Francis."

The thief pursed his lips and rubbed his chin. "You might have something there, Dragonborn. I should make a song about that. Maybe put Mikael out of business, eh?" He shrugged. "Ah, well. Sweet dreams of sweeter women, Dragonborn."

"Where are you sleeping tonight?" Isben asked when Francis started walking away.

The thief swung his hips and smirked over his shoulder. "You're not my type, Benny."

"I meant you were thrown out of the inn! Do you have a place to sleep?"

Francis smiled, touched that he was concerned for him. "Don't worry about me, Dragonborn. Francis here will find a bed that's already nice and warm from a ripe female. And if I can't find it, then Little Francis will. Oh, yes, Dibella, Little Francis will."

* * *

Translations:

_Château Y'quem: _this is an actual French wine. I've never had it before; I really don't like wine. Ew.


	20. Debut

Skyrim belongs to Bethesda, but any OC/plot twist or idea belongs to me. This chapter mainly sets the stage for the next ones to come and introduces a new plot toward the end. Not a lot of action, but not all of my chapters will be killing dragons and raiding Draugr tombs. Enjoy, and Merry Christmas, everyone!

* * *

"_O' hear me, hear me, all the way,_

_ oh you sweet lady, I will say:_

_ The cold is at my door,_

_ It makes me shiver more._

_Oh, will you see my face?_

_To have you in my embrace._

_ I hear the moonlight sing._

_ I know what it may bring._

_ And if I were to change,_

_ would you love me still?_

_ Would you love me still?"_

Francis bowed when his audience in the tavern clapped and called for an encore. "Thank you, thank you—well, thank _you," _he purred when Ysolda planted a kiss right on his mouth. He winked at her, and she blushed scarlet.

"What _terrible _format," Mikael growled at his table. He held his tankard in a white-knuckled grip, and Isben swore he saw the hair on his neck rise. To him, he looked like an angry cat. "And what a phony message! What does that even _mean? _This isn't romantic at all!"

Vimund shrugged his broad shoulders. "I wasn't listening to the words myself, but he sounds like a woman. Is he a bard?"

Isben spluttered and choked on his ale. He held a hand up when Vimund made to hit his back—the man would probably dislodge a few vertebrae. "If only you knew," Isben wheezed out.

Francis sat on a bench near the fire, surrounded by his admirers. They urged him to perform another song, and he eventually complied when Ysolda gave him another kiss.

Mikael was close to bursting.

While Francis entertained his audience with another song, Isben and Vimund engaged in conversation. "I've my next stop for ingredients: The White Phial in Windhelm."

Vimund nodded. "I'm headed to Eastmarch myself in the morning. I have a contract to clear a den out of beasts and the like. Don't suppose you wouldn't mind the extra company?"

Isben chuckled, "I think I'll welcome a bodyguard with open arms, friend."

"Aye, good. Traveling by carriage is much easier than by foot." Vimund looked over at Francis who had just received another round of applause. "And I can do without that fop."

"Actually..." Isben sighed.

* * *

The following morning, Isben, Vimund, and Francis loaded up the carriage and checked the team's tack. Francis sniffed when he saw the ingredients and potions stocked in the crates—nothing worth stealing.

Vimund had his arms crossed and watched the thief. "You keep strange company, Dragonborn. He's half my size."

Isben gave the horses a carrot and shrugged his shoulders. "He's useful."

"Yes, indeed, I am," Francis said as he sauntered over to them. He smiled up at Vimund—something he didn't like doing—and extended a hand. "You've got to be the biggest Nord I've ever seen. Francis Ferdinand at your service, Big Man."

Vimund reached to shake Francis's hand, but Isben scrambled to fling their arms apart. Isben narrowed his eyes at Francis, and, as a second thought, checked his coin purse.

Francis pouted and handed it back to him. "You're killing my fun, Benny."

Vimund grunted, but shook Francis's hand anyway. Francis's eyes bulged when he felt the bones in his palm creak and groan. "Vimund. Pleasure to meet you, Francesca."

"_F-Francesca! That's not my name—"_

"Come on, hop in," Isben said, securing his coin pouch at his side. He took his place in the driver seat and grabbed the reins. "I won't wait forever."

Francis fumed as he climbed into the back of the wagon. "I am _not _a woman," he said when the wagon started rolling.

"Could have fooled me. You look like one. All dainty and feminine."

The thief harrumphed and crossed his arms and legs. "I have proof that I am male."

"Your Adam's apple doesn't count—wait, you don't have one of those, either. Aye, a woman."

Francis gawked and clicked his tongue. "Dragonborn, why must all of your companions have something against me? My heart's wounded! My pride! Little Francis—_think of Little Francis!"_

Isben laughed and urged his team into a faster trot. "I don't know, Francis, Vimund might be onto something there."

Francis squawked and started undoing the belts on his leather armor. "_Ohoho, _aren't you two just clever!" He pulled his trousers down and pointed between his legs. "See? Penis. Penis equals male. Therefore, I am—"

"Looks like a pinkie to me, Francesca."

* * *

Shêza entered The Bannered Mare after meeting with Jarl Balgruuf and made her way up the stairs. She was in a tried mood; the Jarl had said he would _consider _sharing rations with her family, and would only _consider _it when winter hit. Her father would not be pleased.

She knocked on Isben's door and tapped her foot impatiently. When he didn't answer, she knocked again. Frowning, she headed back downstairs. There were only a few places the twatty elf could be.

"He's not here," Hulda said over her counter. Shêza looked at the woman, and she continued, "He had to make another delivery. To Windhelm, I think. He should be back in a week, miss."

Shêza frowned at the news and exited the inn, ignoring Hulda's invitation to have a drink and bite to eat. Why wouldn't he wait for her? Didn't the fool know that he was bound to get himself killed without her watching his back?

She sighed and rubbed her forehead. This twat was more trouble than he was worth, she knew it. She pushed open the city gates and sniffed the air. She caught a whiff of him, as well as Vimund and the scent of fourteen different women—the idiot thief, definitely.

First, she'd finish her business in Whiterun. She was to purchase tomatoes for Petra, and the whole pack looked forward to the soup she'd prepare for them. Then, she'd backtrack to her home and let her father know that she'd be absent for at least a week. And _then _she'd follow the twatty elf's stupid scent.

* * *

"So, Vimund, was it?" Francis asked once he calmed down a bit. Vimund grunted from his side of the carriage. "You're a big man, Vimund. All bulk and muscle. Like an ox. Or a mammoth. Just as hairy as one, too. _Eugh, _how can you stand it?"

"The hair? Nord women don't mind."

"Because they're just as hairy?"

"No," Vimund said, "because they aren't little girly Imperials. Aye: Nord women are the finest women."

Francis scoffed and raised his chin. "Also the hairiest. And I'll have you know, I am _not _girly. I'm pickpocket size."

"_Oh, _a thief. Dragonborn, he's a criminal, aye." He reached for his axe. "He's filth."

"_Filth?" _Francis shook his head. "And what is it that you do? Kill things? At least I only steal valuables. But you, you Giant, you steal lives. Shame, shame."

Vimund's brow creased and he glared at the little man.

"Silence speaks volumes," Francis said. He sighed and waved a hand. "But no matter. Now that we understand each other a bit more..." He eyed Vimund and smiled. "Are you proportional?"

Vimund crossed his arms and smirked. "My staggering size further dwarfs your pinkie, Francine."

"It isn't how much you got," Francis drawled in defense. "It's how you use it. Ask any of my conquests. I haven't failed to disappoint."

Vimund rolled his eyes. "Alright, Francine. Aye."

A sudden breeze had Francis huddle into the cart. He shivered and rubbed his hands together. "A might bit chilly, no?"

Vimund barked a laugh and sneered. "Girly little Imperial. Dragonborn, Francine's cold back here."

"There should be some cloaks in the crates," Isben said. "I don't need you freezing, Francis."

Francis rubbed his chest and pouted. "At least I'm not female. Dibella, this feels _terrible." _He rummaged through a crate and pulled out a fur cloak. He wrapped it about himself so only his eyes were visible. He quivered when he saw Vimund's shoulders shaking with laughter. "Don't you say a word, you hairball."

Vimund guffawed. "Poor little Francesca."

"I'll steal your mother," Francis muttered.

* * *

Petra was mending a tear in Nyssa's leathers when Askel pushed aside the divider to the servant's quarters. He grinned at her and motioned to the bundle of clothes in his arms. "They're Brute Ivor's and Ritta's, Serf-Sister Petra. Where should I—"

"Please place them here, Brother Askel," she said while patting the spot beside her. He placed the laundry down and smiled. Askel's smile was infectious, and she found herself smiling back. When he smiled, his whole face seemed to light up, and pleasant crinkles formed in the corners of his eyes.

"You should rest, Serf-Sister. You look wan and tired."

Petra sighed and continued sewing. "Work will not rest, Brother, and neither will I."

He cupped her face and ran his thumbs over the dark circles beneath her eyes. "You will break yourself if you do not rest, Serf-Sister. Please, at least for an hour. You should eat something as well. I will have Helena bring you something."

She brought his hands away from her face, but he clasped hers in his. "That is very kind of you, Brother—"

"Please call me by name, Petra."

She nodded. "I cannot possibly disobey Nuel's orders." She looked at the laundry Askel had dropped off. "This just adds to my list."

Askel frowned and squeezed her hands. "Then let me help. I'm sure Helena is around here somewhere, and the two of us will make work pass by faster."

Petra smiled and shook her head. "You have a very good heart, Askel. But this is a servant's duty. You are a hunter, and it would be a dishonor if you sank to our level."

"I enjoy sinking to your level, Petra." He rested his forehead on hers but recoiled. He pressed his hand to her forehead and wore a worried look. "By Hircine, Petra! You're burning up!"

She brushed his hand away. "It's nothing, Askel. I usually have a fever during the change of seasons. It'll be gone by tomorrow, I'm sure."

He didn't look convinced. "You should be resting, Petra. A fever can morph into something far more severe if you aren't careful."

"I will be careful, Askel."

He cupped her cheek again and tucked a lock of hair behind her ear. "Promise me?"

Before she could answer him, the divider was pushed aside and Ivor stood in the entryway. He glared at Askel before glowering at her. She shrank beneath the intensity of that look—just what had she done to anger him? She'd patched up his vest, she cleaned his fox pelt. Was he not satisfied with her work?

"The other hunters are ready, Askel. You are delaying us," Ivor said. He watched as Askel said his goodbyes to Petra and left the quarters, but not without the two males narrowing their eyes at each other. Once he was gone, he turned his full attention to her.

"Brute Ivor," she murmured, not at all liking the disgusted look on his face. She ducked her head when he stood in front of her. "I-is everything in order, Brute Ivor?"

He swooped down and pinned one arm above her, trapping her, while his free hand held her chin. She squeaked and fumbled with her needle, accidentally pricking herself. She felt small and insignificant with those furious opal-green eyes boring into her. She pressed herself against the rock wall behind her, trying to become one with it.

"You have duties to see to, servant."

She flushed and stammered, "Y-yes, B-Brute Ivor."

His eyes darted about her face, taking in the terror on her pale and tired features. She looked like a mouse: meek and caught by a cat. He wondered if that was what his mother looked like when her parents murdered her. He gripped her chin and wrist tighter, making her whimper.

"You are _not _to waste your time with other members of this pack. You are a _servant _and _outsider, _undeserving of such privileges."

Tears welled up in her eyes, but she refused to allow them to fall. "Y-yes, Brute Ivor."

He let go of her chin, but didn't make to move. He stared her down, and she felt like she was prey he was about to fell.

She bit her lip to keep from sobbing, and his eyes were drawn to the action. His face softened a fraction when he saw the marks forming on her skin, but it quickly hardened into a steel mask. "I expect that laundry done when I return from the hunt. As does Huntress Ritta."

She jerked her head up and down and sucked her bottom lip into her mouth. "Yes, Brute Ivor." She cast her eyes down and sniffled. She immediately berated herself for betraying her emotions to him, and flinched when he raised his hand.

He froze and glanced at his hand and then at her. "Petra—"

"I-I will get right to work, Brute Ivor." She screwed her eyes closed when a tear trailed down her cheek. "Please don't hit me," she squeaked.

His jaw hung agape, and he stared at his hand as if it was foreign to him. "N-no, Petra—"

"Ivor? The hunt is about to begin—oh." Nuel raised a brow at the scene in front of him and had to bite his cheek to keep from smiling when he saw Petra in tears. Ivor released Petra's wrist and got to his feet. "Ah, I see our little servant is once again neglecting her duties. It's becoming quite a common thing, _dear _Petra."

Petra rubbed her wrist and chanced making eye contact with Ivor. She looked away immediately and didn't see the guilt on his face. "Forgive me, Adviser Nuel. I was just about to resume my duties."

"Were you." Nuel rolled his eyes and turned his attention to the Alpha's nephew. "As for you, Ivor, I suggest you join the others. It'd be a shame if a Brute of your caliber missed the hunt. What are you trying for tonight? Bear again?"

"Elk."

"Ah," Nuel breathed. "Well, may Hircine guide your arrows, Ivor. I will see you at supper." He nodded his head at the hunter and frowned when Ivor looked back over his shoulder at Petra. Nuel stepped in his line of sight. "Good hunting, Ivor."

Ivor left the servants' quarters, his fists clenched tightly at his sides. Nuel exhaled and turned to look Petra up and down. "On your feet, girl, and be quick about it." She climbed to her feet, but not without almost tripping on her dress. Nuel frowned and tilted her chin up. "And what are these? Bruises?"

"Th-they're nothing, Adviser Nuel."

Nuel sneered and prodded at the bruises. "Now, isn't this a surprise? Your precious 'Brute' Ivor has finally put a mark of his own on you. Your heart must be leaping in joy, Petra. Why, it's a shame he doesn't mark you more often. These suit you. Wouldn't you agree, Petra?"

Petra swallowed and had no choice but to look Nuel in the eye as she whispered, "Yes, Adviser Nuel."

"Now, why a Brute of any sort would want _you, _a scrawny, gangly, timid little servant is beyond me. Oh, you poor dear, Petralaine. Can you think of any reasons? Hm?" Nuel leaned down to whisper in her ear, "Do you think yourself _pretty, _Petra?"

She bit her lip and shook her head.

"Do speak up, girl."

"N-no, Adviser Nuel."

"'No' what?"

Petra's arms shook as she said, "No, I do not think myself pretty."

Nuel smiled and nodded. He curled a lock of her hair around his finger. "And do you think your red hair to be desirable, Petra?"

Again, she responded 'no.'

"And your scent?" He nuzzled her neck and breathed in her scent of mountain flowers. "Do you think any male would want to smell that?"

"No," she squeaked. "They would find it repulsive."

"Oh, indeed they would, Petra," Nuel said. He straightened his posture and folded his hands behind his back. "_Dearest," _he sighed when he noticed her body trembling, "do not upset yourself! You are a servant; your duty is to serve, not to be fanciful. You leave that responsibility to a strong, desirable huntress. Oh, dear girl." He cupped her cheek and wiped away a tear with his thumb. "Dear, dear Petralaine. What would your parents think if they saw you like this? All teary-eyed and puffy-cheeked."

She ducked her head.

Nuel clicked his tongue. "Oh, I shouldn't have said that. I apologize, Petralaine; it was cruel of me to bring them up. You must be so lonely without them. 'Tis a shame, indeed." His mouth twitched when he saw her squeeze her eyes closed. "And your father was such a kind man and a valuable servant. We suffered such a loss when he past away."

Petra blinked away tears and stammered out, "Please, Adviser Nuel. I-I should return to my duties—"

"He was always so good to you, wasn't he? Ossian would always have a treat for you and your mother, no? It pains me to know that all you have are memories of your parents. Fay's crochet never failed to impress the pack, and Ossian's knowledge in alchemy always saved us from illness and injury. Well, all but one life, of course."

Petra swallowed and turned her head away when Nuel tried to cup her cheek again. Nuel narrowed his eyes at her, but kept his hands at his sides. "I do hope you keep their memory close, dear girl. It'd be a shame if we were to forget about all of their hardships for the pack. Why, just the sight of you reminds me of them. Oh, but what am I saying! You are a servant, just as they were."

"Th-their memory is with me forever, Adviser Nuel," Petra whispered.

"Good," he purred. "Now. I'll leave you to your duties. Hircine knows you have many of them, and I'm sure your to-do list will only grow by the evening meal." His eyes held a disturbing degree of promise, and Petra's shoulders slumped. "Do try to stay fresh and not wear yourself out, Petra. The pack would be most displeased if you tire." He offered a curt smile, his eyes roving over the bruises on her chin, before taking his leave.

When the divider closed behind him, Petra sank to her knees and held onto her arms, her body shaking with sobs.

* * *

"And that's why they say 'ladies first,'" Francis said with a firm bob of his head. "Mm-hmm."

"If you say so, Francesca."

"We should make it to Ivarstead around nightfall," Isben said.

Francis pouted and stamped his foot. "Ivarstead? _Again? _Benny. We need a change of scenery. With some wine, a warm bed, some _women—"_

"Pipe down, Francine. I'm trying to sleep here."

Francis grumbled and wrapped his cloak tighter about himself.

"Fran," Isben said over his shoulder, "if you want to sit up here, I can teach you how to drive the carriage."

"_Fran? _Oh, not you too!" Francis huffed, but climbed into the driver seat.

"You don't like 'Fran'?" Isben asked with a smile.

Francis twisted his lips and shrugged. "It's alright. Better than Francesca or Francine."

"How about _Franny?" _Vimund guffawed.

"Oh, Dibella, just unman me already," the thief groaned. He took the reins from Isben and shifted them from hand to hand. "So, I just hold them like this, yes? Yes. And then I..."

"To control the horses to the right, you use the right rein. And for the left, you use the left. Simple, Fran."

"Hm." Francis tapped the reins against the team's flanks and was rewarded with a faster pace. "_Ooh, _I see, I see." He tapped them again, and the horses broke into a faster canter. "Oh, I _like _that."

"Now, keep it steady—slow down, Francis, you're going to—_Francis!" _Isben yelped and clung to the driver's seat when Francis whipped the reins against the horses. They burst into a sprint, sending dirt and gravel up in their wake.

Vimund shouted and grabbed hold onto the carriage for dear life. "Oy, lad! We'll crash at this speed!"

Isben tried to wrestle the reins from Francis, but the thief was relentless. He threw his head back and laughed when his hair was whipped out of his face by the wind. "Oh, _Dibella! Faster, horsies, faster! _That's what Ysolda said to me last night, too. _Faster, faster!" _

"Francis, _no—"_

_ "Oh, feel that, Dragonborn! The wind! The sky! The—"_

_ "_TREE!"

He yanked back on the reins with all his might, and the horses skidded to a stop. Isben was almost sent flying out of his seat from the abrupt stop, and Vimund didn't dare let go of the carriage.

Francis giggled and clapped his hands together. "That was fun," he said with a giddy, high-pitched squeak. "Let's do it again, Dragonborn."

Isben slumped in his seat and shook his head. They'd come an inch—_an inch—_from crashing into a gnarled old tree. The horses snorted and stamped their hooves nervously.

Vimund risked letting go of the carriage to take a glance at Francis. The thief's hair was disheveled and windblown—he didn't want to know what his own hair looked like. Isben's was in the same state, chunks of it free from its holder and hanging in his face.

"Aye. I think I'll walk next time."

* * *

Shêza made her way to Ivor's chambers, occasionally having to stop and share her recent adventures with a pack member. They were surprised and proud that one of their own was working with the Dragonborn to restore order to Skyrim, and she received many congratulations for her efforts.

If only they knew their Dragonborn was a complete _twat._

She pushed open the divider and smiled when she saw Ivor making a necklace out of a bear tooth. She set her basket of tomatoes down and sat across from him to watch his handiwork. "Is it for Helena? She loves it when you carve for her and make necklaces."

He grunted and continued smoothing down the edges of the tooth, never lifting his gaze to his cousin. It was roughly the shape of a diamond and brighter than any tooth she'd ever seen.

"It's very pretty, Ivor."

"It's for Ritta," he gruffly said.

Shêza frowned and arched a brow. "Ritta? Nuel's daughter? Since when did you take an interest in her?"

He sighed and selected a piece of leather. "You'd be surprised by how our pack changes when you are absent, Shêzanaré. Especially with what you learn."

"What are you saying? You're the only one who I've seen today who's changed, Ivor." He chose another piece of leather, and she shook her head and held up another one for him. "Use this one for the tie. It's darker than the rest."

He plucked the thin leather cord from her fingers and fastened it through the hole he chiseled in the tooth.

Shêza leaned back and shook her head. "Ritta, did you say? Nuel's spoiled, barbaric daughter who enjoys torturing her meals before she finishes them off."

"Some of our pack members have little restraint against the lycanthropy, cousin," Ivor said.

"And yet there are those who have _no _restraint against it. Ivor, are you sure this is what you want?"

He growled and glared at her. "Oh? And since when did _you _care for my person, Shêzanaré? Shouldn't you be trying to lick your father's backside instead?"

She hissed and bared her teeth at him. "Watch how you speak of our Alpha, Ivor. And _yes, _I do care about you. You're my cousin and part of my family. Even if you are a skeever bum, I still love you. Perhaps you should try to find a woman who has the same tolerance as I do to take as a mate."

He spat and jumped to his feet. He stormed out of his chambers, but stopped in his tracks when Shêza called after him, "It would look better around Petra's neck."

He spun around and barked back, "So too would a rope!" He resumed his march and turned a corner, and he took a step back when he collided with something.

Or someone.

Petra stumbled backward from the impact and tripped over her feet. Her hair hung in her eyes as she hurried to collect the clothes she'd dropped while Ivor stood rooted in place, his heart pounding in his chest.

"Forgive me," she murmured. She held his vest out for him—the vest that was supposed to be cleaned hours ago—and trembled when he reached for it. He withdrew his hand and stared down at her, feeling something twist in his chest when he noticed her body shaking. She shrunk when she heard him growl. "I-I'm sor—"

"Sister Petralaine?"

Ivor growled louder when Askel appeared behind Petra and helped her to her feet. He curled his lip and wrinkled his nose at his Hunt-Brother, not at all liking the way his hands lingered on Petra's shoulders.

"Sister Petralaine, I've been looking for you everywhere," Askel said, not paying Ivor any mind. "Helena wanted you to sit by her during the evening meal, and—"

"And shouldn't you be out hunting, Askel?" Ivor asked with more than a hint of annoyance present in his voice.

Askel looked away from Petra and blinked at Ivor. "Hunt-Brother. Forgive me, I did not notice you—"

"Of course."

Askel cleared his throat and took in a breath. "I'm not part of this hunt's team, Hunt-Brother. And the hunt has already started."

Ivor's brow furrowed and his eyes flashed. "Why wasn't I made aware of this?"

"Forgive me, Hunt-Brother," Askel said. He inclined his head and continued, "I was under the impression that you wanted to finish crafting Ritta's neckace." Petra shook in his arms, and she turned her head toward Askel's neck when Ivor glanced at her. She felt sweat trickle down the back of her neck, and she absently raised a hand to her forehead. She groaned quietly when she felt how warm her skin was.

"I didn't want to disturb you, Hunt-Brother," Askel added.

Ivor balled his hands into fists and snarled, "Perhaps you should think first before falling under one of your 'impressions,' Askel."

"And perhaps so should you before you hurt our pack members with your words! What was that about a rope, Brother?"

Ivor opened his mouth to defend himself, the hair on the back of his neck standing on end, but Petra chose that moment to push herself free of Askel's arms. She threw his vest at his feet and stole away from the two males to somewhere—somewhere where a worthless servant could be alone.

Ivor didn't miss the tears staining her cheeks. Before he could chase after her, Askel blocked his path and growled at him. Ivor returned the gesture and felt his blood boil when Askel still refused to move.

Shêza quietly walked toward them and looked the two of them up and down. She sniffed in disgust and rolled her eyes. "The testosterone is choking me, Hunt-Brothers. Now stop being twats before I _make _you stop. Unless you want Garald to hear about this, of course."

Askel took a step back and lowered his head toward her. "Hunt-Sister, forgive me. I didn't mean to—"

She held a hand up and waved him away. "Go accompany Helena and Nyssa for supper, Askel. Tell them I'll be there shortly." She watched as Askel nodded and took his leave before turning a critical eye on her cousin. "And _you," _she started, taking a step toward him and smacking his shoulder. "You can bring these to Petra." She forced the basket of tomatoes in his arms and grinned wolfishly when he scrunched his face up indignantly. "Is there a problem, cousin?"

"I hate tomatoes," he growled.

"But Petra loves them, and our pack is partial to them."

"I don't care a fig for what Petra likes or dislikes," he shot back.

Shêza's smile only grew, and she tilted her head to the side. "Well, lucky for you, I _don't _care about what you care for. Now be a good Brute and deliver them. Before I make you eat them," she added when he looked close to protesting again. He stalked away, growling and muttering beneath his breath, and swore that one day Shêza would taste her own bitter medicine.

And it would taste worse than these _foul, thrice-damned _tomatoes.

* * *

"Amazing, isn't it?" Vimund asked as he joined Isben near Ivarstead's stables. The Dragonborn was staring up at the mountain, his eyes distant and his expression blank. "High Hrothgar: home of the Greybeards." Vimund shook his head and exhaled. "Aye. One of Skyrim's true wonders—a true Nordic virtue."

"It's strange," Isben said. He rubbed his throat when he felt the itchings of a Word press against his mind. "My answers are literally up a mountain, and I'm at its base, wondering if I should make the climb. It's a metaphor personified," he sighed.

"Not what you're used to, aye?"

"What is? A mountain? We have mountains in Cyrodiil," Isben said.

Vimund chuckled, "No, not the mountain. Fate. Destiny. A calling."

"Every Man and Mer has a destiny," Isben said. "I just thought mine was in the University."

"You're having second thoughts, lad?"

Isben dug his boot in the ground and frowned. "Not second thoughts exactly. But I'm afraid curiosity is the downfall of every being."

"Or the upbringing," Vimund said. "Aye. Without curiosity, nothing would ever be accomplished. It's a grace in this world, and for Men to ignore it is a sin. Aye, a sin." He clapped Isben on the shoulder and added, "I'm going to go see where Francesca went off to. Probably will find him between some poor wench's legs." He rolled his eyes and exhaled before heading toward the inn.

Isben pulled his cloak tighter around himself and stared up at High Hrothgar. He blinked and squinted his eyes when he made out a vague shape hovering over its peak. He blinked again, and the shape was gone. He shrugged, brushing it off as a figment of his imagination.

* * *

Ivor let himself into the servants' chambers, the basket of tomatoes held as far out as possible from his person. The chambers were empty, and he figured that the servants were already in the dining quarters around the fire. He grunted and placed the basket of tomatoes down near Petra's furs before hurrying past the divider.

He wasn't surprised when she wasn't at the evening meal; she'd been skipping more and more of them recently—probably to plot his demise or murder another innocent pack member, just as her parents did. But Askel was there, and the rat had to choose to sit right across from him, the fire the only barrier between them. Oh, he wanted to carve that small smirk off of his Hunt-Brother's face.

Shêzanaré ate her meal quickly, said her goodbyes to her sisters and father, and gave him a warning glare before leaving their sanctuary. _Off to go serve the Dragonborn-mutt already, _he mused to himself. _Even at this late hour. What a loyal dog._

He ate his supper quietly, minding his own person and trying—_trying—_to ignore Askel's infuriatingly soft, pleasant voice. He swore his Hunt-Brother mentioned _her _name loud enough to Helena and Nyssa just for him to hear.

* * *

"The _stable?" _Francis said with a pout. "You're making me sleep in the stable? What have I ever done to deserve this? Oh, wait, I know." He produced Isben's pouch of gold from inside his trousers and handed it to him. "Forgot about that. No hard feelings, yes?"

Isben sighed and snatched his purse back. "I'm beginning to think you're targeting me, Francis."

Francis beamed and peered down his trousers. "No, I've about three more purses in here belonging to various citizens of Skyrim. If you ever need any money—"

"I'll be sure to make you thoroughly clean the septims before even asking," Isben said. He rolled out several blankets for Francis. "I don't want to chance you upsetting Wilhelm. Then we'll _all _have to sleep in the stables."

Francis sighed and shrugged his shoulders. "The last time I slept in a stable was—actually, it was quite recently! Just last month, I met the most _buxom _wench who had the _fullest—"_

Isben closed his eyes and inwardly groaned as Francis regaled him with yet another story of his many trysts.

"Oh, _Benny," _Francis drawled, slinging his arm around Isben's waist. "You should have seen _her _mounds heave. Don't you have any bawdy stories of your own? No bodice-rippers?"

"I'm selective," Isben said.

Francis pouted and stamped his foot. "We need to find you a woman, and fast. Man needs a few good rolls every couple of weeks. I know a few lassies who wouldn't mind basking in the Dragonborn's touch. What say you?"

Isben swatted Francis's hand away when he felt his fingers creeping toward his coin purse. "Perhaps another time, Francis." He untangled the thief's arm from his person and smiled. "Good night."

Francis sat in his furs, his legs crossed and his arms folded over his chest. "Oh, yes, good night, good night. Just leave Francis and Little Francis here without anything to quell their desire." His eyes sparkled and he smiled a toothy grin at Isben. "You don't suppose that bard is here, no? What was her name? Liny? Lyn?"

"Limpy," Isben tossed over his shoulder before leaving the stable.

"Limpy?" Francis recoiled his head and frowned. He hissed and hunched his shoulders. "You think you're so clever, don't you, Dragonborn!" With his keen hearing, he heard Isben laughing from outside the stable.

* * *

Helena trotted throughout the tunnels of her home, Dagfinn clutched tightly in her arms. She quietly slipped past the divider into Ivor's room and stifled a giggle when she saw her cousin sprawled out in his furs, his mouth open as he snored loud enough to wake the dead in Sovngarde.

She knelt by his side and prodded his chest. "Ivor," she whispered. His reply was another snore. She twisted her lips and poked his cheek. "Iv, please wake up."

His eyes flew open with a start and he uttered a few more snuffles before blinking away the sleep from his eyes. "Helena?" He rubbed his face and groaned when his arm muscles pinched.

"Ivor, it's Petra—" He groaned and flopped onto his stomach. He yawned and closed his eyes. Helena huffed and shook his shoulder, not caring that he whimpered when she touched a sore muscle. "Ivor, don't go back to sleep! This is important!"

"Petra's sleeping, as is the rest of the pack. Go back to your chambers, Helena," came his groggy and muffled response.

"But Petra isn't sleeping! She's not in her den, and the other servants said she didn't return from her chores at the river!" Ivor turned his head toward his cousin, a frown etched in his brow. Helena grabbed his arm and tugged on it. "Oh, please, Ivor! I have a bad feeling, and I know something happened to—" Before she could finish her sentence, Ivor was already out of his furs and pulling his vest on. He strode past Helena to the entrance of their home, and she had to run to keep up with his long strides.

She grabbed his hand to keep from being left behind.

"Where is your sister?" he asked.

"Nyssa went to tell Father," Helena said. They ducked beneath the fallen tree at the entrance and hurried toward the river. "Petra... Petra will be fine, yes?" She looked up at her cousin when he didn't reply. "Ivor?"

His face was drawn in anger, but her father often wore that same expression when she or Nyssa went against his wishes; there was also worry and fear in his eyes. Helena bit her lip when she felt her stomach flutter uneasily.

They rounded the bend that led toward the river, and Helena screeched when she saw Petra's still figure lying in the grass at the riverbank. She tore her hand out of Ivor's and made a mad dash toward her friend, but was pulled back by her cousin.

He held her tight in his arms as he saw something Helena didn't. Looming over Petra, its hulking frame barely visible in the darkness, was a werewolf.

* * *

**Ooooo. DUN DUN DUNNNNNN. Thoughts?**


	21. Foreign

Skyrim belongs to Bethesda. Any OC/plot twist or idea you do not recognize belongs to me. And oo, yes, we do have a noncanon plot idea in this chapter :) A couple of them, actually. Thank you for all feedback, and enjoy!

**EDIT: Changed Elijah Artunius's major school of magicka to Restoration.**

* * *

"Reports! Elliot, I need those reports on the double!"

"_Monsieur, _ze Thalmor reports were given two hours ago."

"_What? _Why didn't anyone tell me—where _is _Elliot?"

"_Monsieur, _your brozer did not make an appearance today. I suspect 'e is still sleeping."

"Well, someone wake him up! I don't pay him to be a lazy lout!"

Elijah Artunius huffed and shuffled through the papers littering his desk. "Where are the copies of the Penitus Oculatus reports?"

"Your brozer 'ad zem last night, _monsieur._"

Elijah threw his hands in the air, sending loose papers flying from his desk. "I am _trying _to limit Thalmor control in Cyrodiil—_does he not understand that? _I can't accomplish anything if he's bumming about like a... a... _bum!" _He took in a deep breath to compose himself and let it out in a shudder. "Michel, where is Riley?"

"Riley 'as not yet returned from 'is mission in Skyrim, _monsieur. '_e and Taiko are still dispatched. And Beda is in Solitude trying to spy on ze Thalmor." Michel Sauveterre watched as Elijah stood from his desk to pace the length of the room. "Would you like me to find your brozer?"

Elijah sighed and ran a hand through his hair. "Yes, find him, please. I don't pay him for this—"

"You don't pay me to begin with," Elliot said in a yawn as he entered his brother's study. He stretched his arms over his head and cracked his spine. "What's the crisis? Has the cost of tea risen again?"

Elijah frowned and placed both hands on his desk. "Where are the copies of the Penitus Oculatus reports? You _do _have them, don't you?"

Elliot nodded and waved the reports in his hand. "Of course I do—" He snapped his mouth shut when Elijah snatched them from him. His eyes roved over the reports, occasionally narrowing.

Elijah handed them to Michel. "They're encrypted. Of course: _anything _to protect our dearly beloved Emperor."

Michel raised a hand over the papers and muttered incantations beneath his breath. He smirked when the letters on the page twisted and morphed, revealing the hidden message. "You know, Elijah, you should train more often in ze School of Illusion."

"I'm more partial to Restoration magicka, my friend."

"Ah," Michel sighed. "It seems zat security 'as increased in ze White Gold Tower."

"Can I go, now?" Elliot asked with another yawn.

"No," Elijah barked. "I need you on the streets with your ears open, Elliot."

He huffed and crossed his arms. "Why can't Michel do it? He's better at staying invisible."

"I am a vampire," Michel said with a small smile, "and it is morning, _Monsieur _Elliot."

"Of course," Elliot sighed. "Excuses."

Elijah ignored his brother and turned to Michel. "Did Riley send any word yet?"

Michel nodded. "_Oui. _Two days ago while you were in Winterhold. 'e says zat ze 'edera Black Coats are wary of 'is and Taiko's presence." A pause stretched between them, the only sounds being Elliot shifting on his feet. "Do we even know if ze Black Coats 'ave what we're looking for?"

"Of course we don't," Elijah sighed. "We never know anything for sure, and it's too risky sending more men with the Thalmor invading Skyrim. If they find Hircine's Sentinel before we do—"

"Then it's boohoo for the werewolves," Elliot said.

"To put it childishly," Michel added.

"Michel, tell Holly that I'll be in Winterhold for a few days. I want to keep an eye on the Thalmor rat there. I believe Holly wanted to bake apple crumb cake tonight; please tell her not to wait for me," Elijah said. He pulled on his outer robe and holstered his staff to his back. He glanced up and pursed his lips when he saw his brother swaying on his feet. "Oh, would you straighten yourself up! And why are you still here? Get yourself dressed and on the streets already, Elliot!"

Elliot scowled and dragged himself out of Elijah's study. Michel chuckled to himself. "Your brozer becomes lazier by ze minute, Elijah."

"If you find a cure for it, Michel, be sure to tell me." Elijah stuffed his papers back into their drawers and muttered a spell, sealing the drawers.

Michel leaned against the wall and smiled. "'e is certainly not as proactive as 'is brozer. 'ave you spoken to 'olly yet?"

Elijah sighed and sagged his shoulders. "I haven't had any time to, Michel. She understands my schedule. She knew the man she was marrying."

"_Mon ami, _you will find zat you lead a good cause. Ze Thalmor are eating away ze Provinces, _oui. _But I 'ope you realize zat you can lose everysing you 'old dear to you." Michel swallowed and stared at his boots. "Brave men are usually men who 'ave nothing left to lose."

Elijah closed his eyes and shifted his weight to one foot. "If I don't rebel, Michel, then who will? I have people I love who I don't want to see hurt: Elliot, you, Riley, _Holly..._ Divines, Holly. I'd never forgive myself if the Thalmor found the Sentinel before me—would never forgive myself if I allowed harm to come to Holly."

"Zat is a lot of responsibility on just one man's shoulders, _mon ami."_

Elijah chuckled and wore a sad expression. "It's a burden I'll accept without complaint, Michel."

Michel nodded and filled two glasses with _Surilie _wine. "Zen may ze Divines watch over you, Elijah, and guide your way to success."

"Talos willing," Elijah said as he took a glass and clinked it against Michel's.

* * *

The werewolf tilted his head in curiosity when the strange Black Coat female—the one with the red hair—fell over onto her side. He whined and pawed the ground when she didn't pick herself back up, and he turned to look in the trees behind him. His partner, younger and smaller than him, tilted his head and whined.

Huffing, the werewolf crept out from his hiding spot and carefully made his way toward the Black Coat female. He studied her for a moment and sniffed her. There was something familiar about her scent, something beneath the smell of mountain flowers. Something he should have recognized.

He sneezed.

She was still alive, but there was an ungodly amount of heat radiating off of her. He nuzzled her cheek and whined when he felt how feverish her skin was.

He wanted to help her—Hircine knew it was the right thing to do—but before he could entertain the thought further, a large dark figure came barreling toward him, lips retracted in a snarl and claws ready to tear at him. He managed to dodge the attack, and before the Black Coat male could attack again, he swiped his claws at him, ripping the flesh by his shoulder and drawing blood. It did nothing to slow the Black Coat werewolf down, and he himself had no desire to continue the fight. He scampered away from the enraged Black Coat male, but not without shooting one final look at the unconscious woman by the riverbank. He sprinted back into the forests of Riverwood, his partner at his heels.

* * *

Ivor howled and tore a small trench into the ground when the strange werewolves darted into the trees. He held his post standing over Petra's form, and barked and snarled into the woods, daring the foreigners to try to sneak on Black Coat—_his—_territory again. He stood as still as a statue, muscles braced for an attack, for minutes that dragged on.

Helena strained her ears and took large gulps of air. When she couldn't smell any trace of the two werewolves, she hurried over to Ivor and fell to her knees beside Petra.

Satisfied that the werewolves were gone—for now—Ivor turned around to face Helena and Petra. He nudged Petra's cheek with his muzzle and growled when he felt the sweat coating her skin.

"She's not hurt," Helena said with a relieved sigh. "Oh, Ivor, what did they want from Petra? She never did anything!"

Ivor shook his head and continued to growl.

"She's so warm," Helena said with a small sniff. She brushed locks of hair off of Petra's brow. "She... she isn't going to die, is she, Ivor? Winter's the worst time for illness, and it's nearly here—" Helena bit her lip when Ivor started his transformation back into a man. She gasped when she saw the blood trickling down his chest. "Ivor, you're bleeding!" She brought her hands to her mouth and whimpered. He ignored his cousin's sniffles and scooped Petra up into his arms.

"Find your father," he said with a cough. Helena nodded through her tears and ran ahead back into the mountain. Ivor trailed after her, occasionally stealing glances at Petra. Her brows were drawn together and her cheeks were flushed. _Why didn't she tell anyone she was ill? Foolish of her! _He snarled and quickened his pace, nearly colliding into several of the servants inside the mountain.

They ushered him into a small chamber set aside from the rest of the tunnels. He felt a shiver creep down his back, and he had half a mind to run as far as he could away from that chamber. It'd been a long time since he'd last set foot in this room, and the memories it brought back were none too pleasant.

And the woman in his arms, now covered in his blood, was responsible for those memories.

"Lie her down here, Brother Ivor," one of the servants said. His limbs felt like stiff and rusted Dwarven machinery, but he did as the servant said. Petra was immediately swarmed by more servants, and he found himself being pushed back out of the chamber. When he noticed them undressing her, he averted his gaze and exited the sickroom, wary of the servants' nervous murmurs regarding her health.

He raised his chin and growled. _Fine, then. It's no skin off my nose if she doesn't recover. _Askel came rushing toward the chamber, his face ashen and his eyes darting about nervously. Ivor had to bite his tongue to keep from hissing at his Hunt-Brother.

"Brother Ivor!" Askel said in a gasp when he noticed him standing at the room's entrance. "Brother Ivor, I heard from Helena. Is she alright? She wasn't harmed, was she?" He tried to squirm his way past Ivor, but the Alpha's nephew would not allow it. Askel frowned. "Can I not see her, Brother?"

"She is ill and most likely contagious," Ivor snapped. "I don't need more family members dying because of her."

Askel took a step back and wore a dubious expression. "Petralaine? She would never deal ill will to anyone! You are blind, Brother."

"When I want your opinion, Askel, I will ask it," he growled. He was about to say more, but their conversation would have to wait, as their Alpha strode toward them with his daughters by his side. He motioned them away from the sickroom.

"Alpha Garald," Askel said with his head inclined.

Ivor merely grunted.

"I've asked Nuel to awaken the rest of the hunters," Garald said. "I want you patrolling our perimeter and tracking down these invaders. Having them peek about is one thing, but for them to attack a family member demands judgment."

"Petra was unharmed, though," Ivor said. "They might have only been curious about her."

"Indeed," Nuel said as he joined them. "Your nephew has a valid point, Garald. This could be a whole misunderstanding."

Askel snorted and crossed his arms. "Oh? And I wonder what might have happened if no one interrupted this wandering male. It's not uncommon for wanderers to take advantage of lone females."

Nuel chuckled and gave Askel a degrading glance. "And do tell, Askel: what male of any sort would wish to mount a servant?"

Ivor narrowed his eyes while Askel's face flushed and his jaw tightened. Nuel had to cover his mouth to keep from laughing from this little discovery.

"Enough," Garald growled. "We can exchange barbs later, Nuel. For now, my word is final." Askel and Ivor both inclined their heads—Ivor swallowing back a growl—and quickly dispersed.

"Hunt-Brother!"

Ivor looked over his shoulder and nodded toward the woman making her way toward him. "Ritta."

She stole a glance at his nude form before bringing her gaze to his shoulder. "You're bleeding, Hunt-Brother."

"These strangers are more important than a mere cut, Ritta." When she raised a brow, he added, "I haven't the time for this." She rolled her eyes and grabbed his arm, but he snarled and jerked free of her hold. "I haven't the time for you, either, Ritta," he snapped.

* * *

The entire pack was on full alert, the only talk being of these new wanderers. There were many questions, but no answers. Why would anyone target Petra? Where did these werewolves come from? Were they loners, or were they serving under an Alpha?

Garald sighed and rubbed his forehead. For the past few hours, his hunters had tried tracking the two werewolves down. According to Ivor, one was a dark, smokey brown color while the other had a ruddy tone to his fur—though with the lack of moonlight, it was difficult to tell for sure.

Other than that, all they knew was that the werewolves had traveled south toward Skyrim's border. He demanded that they return to Riverwood, not liking the idea of having their home so vulnerable with their hunters miles away.

Garald shook his head and felt Petra's forehead. Her fever had grown since Ivor brought her in the sickroom. She'd developed a small cough that he feared would worsen as well. _Poor dear, _he thought with a sad smile. He knew that Helena often caught colds during the winter season, and he'd fret over her for days until he was sure she was completely better. But Petra; he had a feeling that this was far worse than Helena's colds.

Her eyes were sunken and sweat matted her hair to her neck and forehead. He dipped a cloth in a basin of cool water and placed it on her forehead, murmuring quietly to her when she stirred and groaned.

Someone cleared their throat at the entrance of the sickroom, and Garald looked up: it was Nuel. His adviser motioned him outside the sickroom, and sparing one last glance at Petra, Garald followed him.

"The hunters are just returning," Nuel said. "I suppose you will be wanting to hear their report?"

"Naturally," Garald said. They moved throughout the tunnels to the dining quarters, where the hunters were helping themselves to a delayed breakfast. Garald scanned the crowd and frowned. "Where is Ivor?"

"His group must not have returned yet," Nuel said with a shrug. "You know how thorough your nephew is."

"And I also know how determined he is to please." Out of the corner of his eye, Garald caught sight of someone walking with a hastened pace toward the sickroom. He didn't need to look to know who it was. "Tell the other hunters when they arrive that I would like to have a word with them."

"Of course," Nuel said with a bow.

* * *

Every muscle in his body screamed for rest as Ivor made his way as quickly as possible to the sickroom. His shoulder still stung from when the werewolf sliced him, and he knew that he'd have to clean the wound before infection set in. Still, to do such a thing himself wasn't... _normal. _Petra had always seen to his injuries no matter their magnitude.

She'd also soothed away his aches and pains with a massage. When was the last time she'd given him one? _Too long ago, _he thought with a wince as his muscles pinched. His feet stopped just short of the divider that led into the sickroom. He frowned and pursed his lips in thought. Why should he even bother visiting her? She was the _enemy, _and if the Hydra lost one of its heads, the better. He should have been hoping that she'd die of fever and not wondering how she was faring.

On the other hand, he could always have Nyssa sneak into the sickroom and evaluate Petra, but he knew he wouldn't be satisfied unless he saw her for himself. He took a few whiffs near the divider. The scent of mountain flowers was so faint that he wondered if he was just imagining it. He could smell a familiar scent of rot and sweat, though, and also another familiar smell—

_Askel. _He bared his teeth and wanted to howl in outrage. That rat had the audacity to—!

He turned on his heel, feeling his hackles rise when he heard Askel murmuring from behind the divider. He nearly collided with Ritta he was so agitated.

Nuel's daughter blinked and held out her hands. "Hunt-Brother, there you are. My father would like to speak with you about the werewolves. He'd like a firsthand account from the person who engaged in combat with them." Her eyes raked over his form, and it was obvious she was still appreciative of the fact he wore no clothes.

"Does he, now."

She nodded and took a step closer to him, tilting her head so that it hovered just near his uninjured shoulder. "It was very brave of you to attack that werewolf, Hunt-Brother. I honor you for defending a family member, even if it was only a servant."

Ivor tried to take a step back, but she angled her body just so to prevent him from escaping. "I appreciate the sentiment, Ritta." He was wary of the adviser's daughter, disturbed by the way she gazed up at him through her lashes. Her eyes were the same blue as her father's: cold, calculating, static. Not at all brown and filled with the genuine warmth like—

"So honorable to serve and watch over our family," she whispered. She sneaked her hand over his bicep, her thumb stroking the side of his chest. It would have tickled—it _should _have tickled—but it felt like an ant crawling on his skin. "I can only wonder who watches over you, Brother Ivor."

"Petra," he said. It was the first name that came to mind, as it was true, and he fought the urge to growl when Ritta visibly flinched and sneered at the mention of her.

"Of course. How foolish of me to forget her. These servants all seem the same to me." Ritta ran her hand up and down his arm and chanced leaning closer to him. He instinctively leaned away from her, but with his back to the tunnel wall, she had him just where she wanted him.

"You must be very exhausted," she murmured in his ear. "Don't deny it, Hunt-Brother: your gait is off and your shoulders are hunched. I could relieve these aches for you. You need only say the word."

The corners of his mouth turned down at her offer, but he couldn't deny how his muscles seemed to plead with him to listen to her. Soon enough, she had his shoulder cleaned and bandaged, and he found himself in his chambers on his stomach with Ritta rubbing his back.

He wasn't comfortable with how her hands would dip to the small of his back and slide to his hips, and he didn't like how she tried to spark pointless conversation with him. And she had an overhanging cloud of blood and wet fur about her. Petra would always hum; her hands would never stray; her touch didn't make his skin crawl like Ritta's; and Petra smelled like mountain flowers. Red ones, to be exact.

And Ritta missed more than a handful of knots.

* * *

Francis had to hand it to Isben: the stable wasn't so much of a bad idea after all. Sure, it smelled like horse and leather, and the horses would whinny at him occasionally, but it was secluded and warm: the perfect place to indulge himself.

Well, almost perfect. A few wenches would have been appreciated.

Francis sighed and tucked himself back into his trousers. He glanced up when he heard the stable door open and smirked when he saw who it was. "Well, well, well," he purred in his rich voice, "if it isn't the Dragon-Lady. Come to have some fun with Little Francis?"

Shêza's face scrunched and she covered her nose. "You smell like a brothel."

"You smell like... oh, what is it? Wet dog? Rabid animal? Oh, wait, I know. A wolf." Francis gave her a toothy grin when she narrowed her eyes at him. "Oh, come now, lady. I told you we aren't so different, you and I. You should have believed me."

Shêza scoffed and leaned against the stable door. "I can hardly smell it on you."

"The scents of wine and sex make it difficult to detect, no?" Francis sneered and reclined in his blankets. "Ah, but there's more to it than that. That's for another day, though." He eyed her and laughed when he saw the leaves sticking out of her hair and clothes. "Did you start a fight with a bush, lady?"

"You should know: traveling in our other form is much faster and efficient." She turned and opened the stable door.

"And just where are you off to?" Francis asked.

"The inn. Where you can't follow. Oh, and keep the doors open to air this place out. This stench is not inviting."

"Mmmm, it is to some people," Francis purred. He pouted when she left the stables and huddled further in his blankets. "Oh, yes, don't mind the Imperial freezing to death. Stupid hairy Nords."

* * *

"Good to see you again, Miss Shêzanaré," Vimund said once morning broke. Shêza nodded her head in greeting and poked one of the horses when it tried to smack its lips against her. "Still looking after our Dragonborn, aye?"

"It's hard to tell," Isben said as he came around the cart. He picked a leaf out of Shêza's hair and smiled when she turned to face him. "Without me, she'd be full of burs." He pulled another leaf out and chuckled when she swatted his hand away.

"She needs a bath, is what," Francis said as he joined them. "Looks like a spriggan with all of those leaves. Lovely creatures, spriggans. Their curves are in the right places, even if they are covered in bark. But those bears they conjure up..." He shuddered. "I'd rather not think about them."

"At least I don't smell like you," she smirked. Vimund frowned and smelled Francis's arm—nearly ripping the limb off—and swore beneath his breath.

"Talos's beard, Francesca," he spat.

"He isn't sitting by me." Shêza climbed in the driver's seat beside Isben and cackled when Vimund swore loud enough to wake up the rest of Ivarstead.

* * *

While Vimund and Francis exchanged barbs in the back of the wagon, Shêza ran her fingers through her hair to try to remove some more of the leaves. Isben smiled to himself and spurred the horses faster.

She narrowed her eyes at him and paused in her actions. "You are laughing at me."

"No, I'm not," he said with an all-too innocent face. "Do I look like I'm laughing to you?"

She slouched in the seat and crossed her arms. "Twat."

He chuckled and hummed. "That I am, dearest lady." He stole a glance at her and smiled. "You look very nice without the warpaint."

She looked away from him and fiddled with her poncho. "You need warpaint to cover your ugly features."

He laughed and nudged her with his elbow. "So, why'd you follow after us? Don't tell me you were lonely without my endless bothersome troubles?"

"I haven't felt more relieved in my life without having to babysit your useless bottom." She snickered when he pouted. "I just felt like being entertained by a twatty half-elf for a while longer."

"Cosmos," he said.

"Indeed." They were silent for a moment, idly listening to Francis screech and squawk at a jab Vimund made. "Windhelm, is it?" she finally said.

"Yes. More deliveries to make and whatnot. And Vimund needs help with a mission for the Companions—"

"Useless mutts," she muttered.

He cleared his throat and shot her an uneasy look. "Watch that around him, would you? I don't need my friends at each other's throats."

She blinked and wore an incredulous look. "_Friends?" _The word was strange to her, as she only had a few people in her pack that she would consider friends.

"What else am I supposed to call you? You aren't exactly my enemy, nor are you an acquaintance." He grinned and added, "Unless you want me to call you my babysitter."

"It's more apt of a description," she mused.

"This is all so very touching," Francis said as he propped himself up on the back of the driver's seat, "but I'm afraid I'll have to sour the moment."

"Your stench alone does that," Shêza said.

He huffed and made a face at the back of her head. "Anyways. Benny, I smell trouble up ahead."

"What?" Isben steered the wagon to the side of the cobbled road as three mounted riders came headed toward them. They passed the wagon, and Francis leaned over the driver seat to snatch the reins from Isben. "What are you doing—"

"_Hyah! Run, horsies, _RUN!" Francis whipped the reins against the team's flanks, and they burst into a sprint.

"Francis! What did I say about conducting the carriage—"

"They're after us!" Francis shouted. Shêza turned around in the driver's seat, and sure enough, the riders had turned their horses around and were galloping toward them.

Isben tore the reins from Francis's hands and urged the horses into a faster gallop. "Sit down, Francis!" Vimund pulled Francis down in the back of the cart. "And—Shêza, what are you doing!"

Shêza ignored Isben and stood up in the driver's seat, her bow in her hands and an arrow nocked. "What does it look like I'm doing, you twat?"

"Not sitting down," Francis said. "Oy, Dragonborn! She's going to—" He yelped as a fireball exploded near his feet. "Oh, _Dibella! _They're mages!"

"Then they will die," Vimund roared out.

Isben cursed and whipped the reins. "Just hold on—_Shêzanaré!" _She wobbled and almost lost her balance after releasing an arrow, and if he hadn't grabbed her leg to keep her steady, she would have fallen out of the driver's seat.

"Anyone know how to throw fireballs?" Francis asked as he dodged another one.

"They better not," Vimund growled.

"Oh, sweet Dibella," he whined. "I wish Marcurio was here." When an arrow embedded itself by his head, he growled and shouted at Shêza, "Would you work on that aim, please? Before you stick me with one of those arrows?"

"That wasn't me," she bit back.

"Divines," Francis whimpered.

Shêza used Isben as support as she fired off another shot. "One down," she said.

"Was it the mage?" When another fireball exploded next to the wagon, Francis sighed, "Wishful thinking."

Isben readjusted his grip on her leg when she twisted her body to aim at another rider. "Try for the mage," he yelled.

"The mage is behind a shield," she said. "The archer—"

"'The archer' what?" Isben panicked when she didn't reply and chanced glancing at her.

"It just grazed me," she said, but the amount of blood seeping through her poncho betrayed her words.

"They're gaining on us, aye!" Vimund said. He ducked when another arrow whizzed by, and when he sat back up, he saw the remaining two riders on either side of the carriage. He narrowed his eyes at their attire, and when he finally recognized the gaudy red and black leather, he shouted, "They're Dark Brotherhood!"

"Oh, _great," _Francis said. "No one told me the Brotherhood was looking for the Dragonborn. I should have stayed in Riften." He got to his feet, maintaining balance even when the uneven cobbles jostled the carriage to and fro and side to side.

"Francine! Get down before you—"

"I'm not sitting around like a fish in a barrel, thank you," he snarled. He leapt over the side of the carriage and tackled one of the riders off of their horse, sending them to the ground.

That left the archer for Shêza to deal with. Isben pulled back on the reins, demanding that his team come to a halt. Shêza let loose another arrow, narrowly missing the assassin. She scrambled backward and fell into Isben's lap when the assassin's arrow came close to making its mark. Isben wrapped an arm around her waist and Shouted, "_Fus!" _

It was nowhere near potent enough to kill the assassin, but it was enough to make their horse lose its balance. The beast was sent cartwheeling forward, dislodging the assassin from its back.

Before the team could come to a complete stop, Vimund jumped from the back of the wagon and charged at the assassin, his axe raised high and a bellow roaring out from his mouth. Isben hurried to offer whatever help he could to Francis, as he was sure that the mage was giving the thief anything but the time of his life. But a sudden groan from Shêza had him stop and search for her wound.

She hissed when he tried moving her hand away from the gash just below her false ribs. "L-leave it," she growled out, baring her teeth at him.

"You'll bleed out if it isn't treated," he said. "And it could have been poisoned." He leapt in the back of the carriage and pulled out a potion from one of the crates before making his way back to her. She was lying down on her back, the muscles in her face drawn together in pain. He finally managed to wrench her hand away from the wound, and her fingers quickly latched on his shoulder as the cold air met her torn flesh.

When he poured the potion onto the wound, she threw her head back in a howl and dug her claws into his shoulder—not enough to puncture skin but certainly hard enough to leave a mark. She felt her flesh sizzle as the potion combated the poison.

He propped her head up and prodded her lips with the mouth of the bottle. "Drink the rest." She downed the last of the potion, her eyebrows nearly becoming one at its putrid taste. "This part is going to hurt." He held her gaze as her skin knitted itself back together and brushed back sweaty locks of hair from her brow. Her nostrils flared and she bit her lips to keep from howling again.

"Where's Francesca?" Vimund panted as he rejoined them. Blood stained his armor and axe, and Isben was confident that none of it belonged to him. The two men looked behind them to see Francis struggling with the mage. "Damned magicka," Vimund seethed. He bounded toward Francis with another warcry.

Isben smoothed Shêza's poncho back down. He blinked when he noticed the pressure against his shoulder and pried her fingers from him. He gently held her wrist, not caring for the sticky blood coating her hand, and rubbed his thumb against her palm. "I know: it feels alien, doesn't it?"

Her eyes fluttered open, and she swallowed when she saw the sincerity in his face. She weakly nodded and continued gulping down more air.

"Well," Francis huffed as he and Vimund walked back toward the carriage, "that was messy." He shook his hands out, sending globs of blood flying hither and thither. Vimund didn't seem to mind when some hit his boots. "I don't have anything personal against mages and magicka, but sometimes I can do without those shields. Flays my hands open every time." He rubbed his raw knuckles and licked a bleeding cut.

Isben handed him a potion for his hands, and Francis beamed at him as a 'thank you.'

"I don't like how they can track us so easily," Vimund said gruffly. He planted his axe in the ground and leaned against it.

"Was there anything on them?" Isben asked.

"Just these," Francis said. He held up a letter and gave it to Isben. "I'm guessing it's not news to you?"

"Same orders as last time," Isben muttered. "Written by the same person: Astrid."

"_Oooh, _a lady," Francis said with a suggestive wink. He waggled his eyebrows. "I never knew you took to dangerous women, Dragonborn. I'm telling you: we _need _to hit a tavern one of these days." He flexed his fingers once the potion was done healing his cuts. "But just out of curiosity, Ben. Is there anyone else out to kill you? I imagine with you being Dragonborn that you've made some enemies."

Isben had the decency to sport a sheepish look. "I might have stepped on some Thalmor toes." He ignored the whine Francis made and continued, "It was right before I entered Whiterun for the first time. They almost killed me."

"But?" Francis asked.

"But someone using this arrow shot them before they could deal the finishing blow." He pulled his quiver off of his back and gestured to the ornate arrow among his iron ones.

Shêza sat up in the driver's seat, wincing as her side stung. She tilted her head when she saw the arrow. "Ivor," she said.

"Pardon?" Isben asked.

"His name is Ivor. He's my cousin," she murmured.

"Oh, _wonderful," _Francis said. "There's _more _of her."

"It only gets better," she sneered at him. "I have two sisters."

"Oh?" Isben asked, smiling at her when he noticed some color return to her cheeks.

"Sisters?" Francis licked his lips and smiled. "Do tell."

"Oh, yes," Shêza said with a firm bob of her head. "One has eight summers while the other will soon have sixteen."

Francis's face fell and he slouched his shoulders. "Damned wishful thinking," he mumbled. He stamped his foot and raised his chin when Shêza snickered at him. She winced when she jostled herself too much.

"Aye," Vimund said. "We'd best pick up the pace." He shouldered his axe and hopped back into the cart. "You never know if there are more of these bastards about. Best not to take any chances."

* * *

Ivor was carving the finishing touches on his bear tooth necklace when Nyssa peeked into his quarters. She smiled when she saw him bundled up in his furs and let herself into his chamber. "It's almost time for your rotation, Ivor," she said as she sat herself down on the end of his furs. She glanced at his work and quirked an eyebrow. "What's that?"

"A necklace," he said.

"Well _obviously," _she snorted. "You should have plucked more teeth. One charm is puny, Ivor."

"It's different," he said quietly. "Different is nice."

"It's so sparse, though. Like it's missing something." Nyssa idly tapped her finger against his foot. "Will this werewolf issue effect my training?"

"The rotations might," he said. "Your father isn't taking any chances. He has us patrolling the mountain at all times."

Nyssa nodded, and her eyes followed him as he stood up to retrieve his vest. She winced and gasped when she saw his back. "That werewolf didn't do that to you, did it?"

He craned his neck over his shoulder to see the angry red marks along his skin. "Oh, no."

"Then what did? Ivor, your back is full of scratches!"

He sighed and pulled his vest on. "Don't ever ask Ritta for a massage, Nyssa."

"Why?"

"Because," he said in a voice that brooked no argument, "she does not know how to give them."

* * *

Attention, dear readers: the art of La Massage is a skill needed to be approved first by Ivor of the Hedera Black Coats. Juss sayin'.

And FF, Fun Fact: Michel Sauveterre is a Breton, yes. I am therefore incorporating French into his vocabulary. Now, Maurice was a Breton (the pilgrim of Kynareth in previous chapters), but Vimund stated that he did not have a Breton accent, and Maurice said he was not from High Rock. So, Maurice does not speak French, but Michel does and Michel has a Breton (French) accent. Does this make sense?

And also: Since Michel has a French accent, I write his dialogue with his accent incorporated into it. This is why I have apostrophes taking the place of a hard 'h' sound in words (you cannot pay French people to pronounce their hard h's), and I have him pronounce 'th', as in 'that' as a 'z'. (Example: 'That' translates to 'zat') I won't do this for every word with 'th' in it because it might be a bit confusing to understand him, but for the most part I will.

Translations:

_Monsieur: _Mister/Sir

_Oui: _Yes

_Mon ami: _my friend


	22. Trouble in Windhelm

Skyrim belongs to Bethesda. Any OC/plot twist or idea that you do not recognize belongs to me. Thanks for the feedback, and enjoy!

* * *

"You know you're in Windhelm when the snow is up to your thighs," Francis said as he sank further into the snow. "You'd think the guards would sweep the snow away. What else are they good for?"

"Putting criminals like you behind bars," Vimund grunted as he hopped down from the back of the cart. He threw his head back and chortled when Francis pouted and tried maneuvering through the snow.

"Oh, _Dibella," _Francis whined when the snow came up to his waist. "Gods, not my _stones. Augh. _Can't Ulfric Shout this snow away?_"_

Isben shook his head in good humor as he adjusted his team's bridles. Shêza carefully joined him, mindful of her side still having stinging fits. She made a face when her bare feet touched the snow and followed Isben to the stables, content to keep away from Vimund's and Francis's bickering. Unfortunately, the thief decided to trudge over to her.

"You are staring at me," she said without looking at him. "Why?"

Francis pursed his lips and tucked his chin into his chest. "I don't understand how you can stand this cold. Even with a cloak on, I feel like someone dropped me off at Dawnstar without a stitch of clothing. _Burrrrr." _He shivered and huddled further into his cloak.

"I'm a Nord," Shêza said, a wolfish smile creeping along the corners of her mouth. "You know: big, hairy. Fit for the cold."

"Also fit to be a rug with all that hair," he mumbled. He looked her over and bit the inside of his mouth. "Actually, you're slim and lean for a Nord woman. Of course, if you took the poncho off, then I'd know for certain." He was too busy waggling his eyebrows and snickering to himself to register Shêza jabbing his forehead with her fore- and middle-finger. It was enough to upset his balance, and he squeaked when he tipped over backward, making a Francis-shaped hole in the snow.

Isben finished paying for his team's stalls and made sure his horses were settled and fed for the night. His eyebrows were drawn in concern, and when he noticed Shêza looking at him, he explained, "I'm not sure it's a good idea to leave the wares in the stable. Anyone can take them."

"Trust me, Benny," Francis said from his hole, "no thief with a brain is going to steal your little twigs and potions."

"If they had a brain, they wouldn't be thieves in the first place," Shêza sneered. She cackled when Francis sighed. She walked a few paces behind Isben as he led them over the bridge into the city. Vimund shook his head at Francis and swung the thief over his shoulder as he trailed after Isben and Shêza.

"Lightweight," Vimund chuckled.

"Pardon me, but I'm not weighed down by ten pounds of hair," Francis said with a sniff.

* * *

Regarding the snow, the city itself was hardly in better condition than the outdoors. Francis glared at the snowbanks as Vimund carried him, and he was certain that they were taller than him. "A charming city. I'm so glad it's dark out; can't see all the snow, then."

Shêza rolled her eyes. They past an older woman muttering to herself about a butcher of some sort. Isben shrugged his shoulders when Shêza raised an eyebrow at him.

"Crazy old coot," Francis said.

"Candlehearth Hall," Isben read from a sign standing outside the first building in the city. "Let's hope it's the inn."

"And not some giant crypt where Ulfric Stormcloak keeps the bodies of his enemies—what?" Francis gave Shêza a cheeky grin from his position on Vimund's shoulder.

"Hopefully it's the dungeon," she said. "Then we can just drop you off."

Isben chuckled as he swung open the door to Candlehearth Hall. He sighed in relief when he felt how warm the inn was.

Vimund dropped Francis and rolled his shoulder. The thief landed neatly on his feet and sniffed the air. His and Vimund's stomachs growled when they smelled something cooking.

"You dears lookin' for a place to stay? It's lookin' like a storm out there, it is," a woman with a painted face said from behind the counter.

Isben smiled and took a seat by the counter. Shêza shifted on her feet and padded over to his side. "Yes, please: rooms and food will be much appreciated." He pulled out his purse to dig out a small handful of coins, but Francis was a step ahead of him. The thief slapped down a bag of septims and smiled a dazzling grin at the proprietress.

"And fresh, hot water for baths, of course," Francis purred.

The proprietress looked him up and down, not seeming to be impressed by his looks. "No need to try to woo me, young man. The gold does a better job at it, anyway. I'm afraid I only have two rooms for rent, though. The ones down the hall and on the left are yours for the night. There's a fresh pot of pheasant stew upstairs if you dears are hungry. Now, if you'll excuse me, I'll see to your baths."

Francis smiled and pushed himself from the counter to head up the stairs. He stopped when the proprietress called after him, "Oh, and mind you don't get too fresh with Susanna. She plays the flirt, but it's only to get good tips." His eyebrow quirked up at this, and Isben didn't need to turn around to know he was smirking.

* * *

While Vimund engaged in conversation with Jora, a priestess of Talos, and Francis with no other than Susanna, a buxom tavern wench who was well aware of her assets, Isben and Shêza sat near the hearth in the center of the upstairs dining quarters. She poked at the chunks of pheasant in the stew. It tasted alright—nothing questionable about it—but Petra's was by far better and heartier. Even Ivor, who wasn't fond of pheasant, couldn't help but to have a second helping of her stew.

Still, it kept her belly full.

Isben took another spoonful and glanced over at her. He smiled when she stretched her legs toward the hearth and wiggled her toes. "Imagine if we had to camp out in this weather," he said.

She grunted, and as if on cue, wind whipped against the windows. "I'd rather not," she said.

He chuckled and took a swig from his tankard. "I expected Ulfric's city to be more... orderly, I suppose. The walls do nothing to keep the wind at bay and the snow from blowing in the city."

"I expected the heads of Imperial soldiers displayed on pikes all along the walls," she said quietly.

"I take it you're in favor of the Stormcloaks, then?"

"What makes you think that?"

He shrugged. "Well, you don't like Thalmor, for one. And you're a pure-blooded Nord."

She sighed and crossed her ankles. "Not every Nord supports Ulfric, and not every Nord supports the Empire. As for the Thalmor... 'dislike' is putting it a bit mildly."

"If you don't mind me asking," he said softly.

She stopped picking at her food and stared at the hearth. She cleared her throat and began, "The Thalmor disrupt normalcy for their own benefits. They banned the worship of Talos because he was a _Man _turned god. If he was a Mer who became a god, I'm sure they'd have no qualms about that."

"You believe in Talos?"

"Yes," she whispered. "I believe in all of the Nine." She set her bowl of soup down and leaned back in her seat. "But that's not all. The Thalmor show that they want Tamriel to revert back to the old days when the Ayleids ruled. They make it seem like such a better future, promising that they'd make the land and people stronger." She shook her head. "But the Ayleids enslaved Man. This is what they _want. _And the Empire allows them to trample over all of Tamriel and suffocate the people with their laws and bans."

Isben nodded and stared at his tankard. "So there is nothing personal you have against them?"

"Oh, yes," she said. "The Ayleids garnered their power from the Daedra. Can you see the Thalmor opting to share Daedric worship with anyone else? No, they wouldn't allow it. It would be too risky to let outsiders worship the Daedra. Imagine what would happen if Malacath empowered the Orcs and communicated with them. There'd be a struggle for power, then."

Isben slowly turned to face her, a strange expression on his face. "Are you saying—"

"That I worship the Daedra? Yes," she said. "I am a hunter. I worship Hircine."

"A-ah," he said. He swallowed and bit his lip. "I suppose there are worse Daedra to follow."

She snorted and scowled. "You think less of me now."

"It's surprising," he said. "I expected Daedric worshipers to wear long, black cloaks and wear ghastly paint and make sacrifices in the dead of night while chanting garbage beneath their breath."

"We make sacrifices," she whispered. He closed his eyes and pursed his lips. "But in the forms of elk and mammoth on occasion."

"No people involved?"

"I'm sure other worshipers do, but my people do not." She looked at him and said, "And what about you? Aren't the Bosmeri people cannibals?"

He coughed and rubbed the back of his neck. "Ah, yes, that. I was born in Cyrodiil, and I have _never _eaten another person, Bosmeri or otherwise, in my life, nor have I ever entertained that thought. Perhaps my ancestors did, but not me." He looked at her and offered a small smile. "So you're afraid that the Thalmor will forbid you from worshiping Hircine?"

"It's not that," she huffed. "They'd root my people out and replace us with their own ilk."

"Shêza," Isben said, "where exactly do you live?" At this, she closed her mouth and turned away from him. He sighed and ran a hand through his hair. "Sorry."

She grunted and refused to look at him. With nothing else to say, he hung his head and twiddled his thumbs. He nearly jumped out of his seat when Francis swung his arms over his shoulders.

"Ah, _Benny, _there you are," he purred in his ear. The thief glanced at Shêza and whispered to him, "Well you two seem to be having a _lovely _time talking. See that bard over there, Benny?"

"Yes."

"I think you're due for a treat, don't you? This one's for you." He clapped him on the back and sauntered over to the bard. Isben watched as Francis murmured in her ear and gestured this way and that. He almost didn't see the thief slip her a pouch of gold.

The bard, Luaffyn, cleared her throat and waved the small crowd of people in the dining hall quiet. "We have a request tonight! This one is one we all know and love." She took in a deep breath and began:

"_Our Hero, our Hero claims a warrior's heart. _

_ I tell you, I tell you, the Dragonborn comes."_

Isben closed his eyes and folded his hands beneath his chin. Shêza stared at him as Luaffyn continued.

_"With a Voice wielding power of the ancient Nord art._

_ Believe, believe, the Dragonborn comes."_

She nudged his foot with hers, and he opened his eyes halfway.

"_It's an end to the evil of all Skyrim's foes."_

He tapped his fingers against the arm of his chair, shifting his weight in his seat and sighing out of frustration.

"_Beware, beware the Dragonborn comes."_

Isben exhaled and murmured, "I should go."

"You should listen," Shêza offered.

"_For the darkness has passed and the legend yet grows."_

"No, I really should—"

"_You'll know, you'll know the Dragonborn's come."_

While the crowd clapped and held their drinks out in salute to Luaffyn, Isben excused himself and hastened toward his room. He paused and glanced at the room next to his. He rolled his eyes when he heard moans and Francis's voice from behind the closed door.

He entered his own room and closed the door. When he saw the tub full of steaming water set in the corner, he slouched his shoulders in relief and stripped his clothes off. His trousers caught on his ankle, and he hopped on one foot while trying to tug the frustrating garment off. He nearly fell into the tub.

Isben's head jerked up when someone knocked on the door. "Who is it?"

A grunt.

He huffed. "Just a moment—"

Shêza let herself into the room and raised an eyebrow at him. He imagined he was quite the sight: balancing on one leg, his trousers around his ankles, his back hunched over. He forced a smile on his face and finally managed to pull his trouser leg off. "Do you have any concept of privacy, Shêzanaré?"

She clicked her tongue and scowled.

"At least close the door."

She kicked the door shut and leaned against it, her arms crossed. He balled his trousers up and tossed them on the bed. He still wore his tunic that came down to the middle of his thighs, and he met Shêza's gaze with an expectant one. "Do you mind?"

She shrugged. "It's nothing I haven't seen before."

"So you make a habit of barging in on people when they're bathing?"

She frowned and said, "Nudity is not an offense. Flesh is flesh, not a sacred shrine to be gawked at. And you aren't bathing yet."

"Still. For decency's sake, could you..." He motioned with his hand and twirled his finger. She looked unimpressed as she turned around. "Thank you."

When she heard the water splash and his small sigh, she sat cross-legged on the edge of the bed. She picked at his trousers, and, after giving them a sniff, pushed them far away from her. "This could all end, you know," she said.

"Pardon?" He pulled the holder out from his hair and dunked his head in the tub.

When he resurfaced, she clarified, "This inn. Windhelm. Whiterun. Skyrim."

"What are you talking about?"

"I'm talking about ignoring your duty," she growled.

"If you came in here to lecture me, then by all means, leave. I don't have the head for this now."

"Oh? And when will you? Admit it: you're afraid. A little coward puppy."

"Then why don't _you _meet with the Greybeards?" he snapped back. "Or why not Vimund? Divines, even _Francis!"_

"Because _you _were chosen," she snarled. She leapt over to him and gripped the edge of the tub. She leaned toward him and said, "Skyrim is being torn apart by both a Civil War and Dragons. The Divines will not solve Mundus's problems in a heartbeat, but they _do _send us mortals the means necessary to live on and see another day. You doom us all if you continue to ignore the Greybeards."

"Yes, _I was chosen." _He tried stepping out of the tub, but Shêza had her arms on either side of it. "The gods have a very twisted sense of humor: let's send this half-breed who knows nothing of combat or survival to save Tamriel from utter destruction!"

"You lived under Thalmor scrutiny for years," she growled. "You survived Helgen. You adapted and found followers to share battle with."

"That hardly qualifies me as a hero."

"No, but it makes you worthy to become one. You say you want to leave Skyrim and return to your precious little University." She covered his mouth with her hand when he tried to defend himself. "I don't see you trying to cart your twatty little bottom back to where you came from. I see you trying to help and serve the people of Skyrim. Answer something for me: have you _ever _had as much freedom in Cyrodiil that you have here?"

He shook his head 'no.'

"Did you ever have companions who you could rely on? Who you could depend on to have your back?"

He furrowed his brow and pulled her hand away from his mouth. "I don't know about Francis," he said. "Vimund? Yes, by his honor. You?"

She swallowed. "I've followed you this far, haven't I?"

"With small lapses where you'd run off to who knows where." He rubbed his thumb over the back of her hand and stared at the water. It was starting to chill, and she still had to bathe. "You insult me, you snap at me, you have temporary periods where you want nowhere near my guts, you used me as bait. I don't know, Shêzanaré. _Are _you someone I can trust?"

"Can I trust you to heed your calling?"

"Answering a question with another question," he sighed. "An interesting rhetorical strategy. Answer mine first."

She straightened herself up and slid her hand out from his. "I'll leave that for you to decide." She started heading toward the door and added, "And hurry up. I itch too, you know."

* * *

Once she was clean, she curled up on the floor next to the bed and closed her eyes. She heard Isben shifting on the bed and peeked an eye open when she felt something brush against her.

"It's cold," he said as he draped the furs over her. She wrapped the blankets around her until she made a cocoon out of them. He stretched out on his back and let out a breath. "Good night."

"Mm-hmm."

* * *

Helena crouched low to the ground and peered through the ivy surrounding the riverbank. She squirmed in anticipation as she saw her prize hopping on a rock. She should have already been asleep, but she had a mission to accomplish. Her father once told her that toads brought good luck, and she was determined to catch this little toad for Petra; maybe it would make her feel better.

She inched closer to the toad and whimpered when she was an arm's length away from it. It blended in with the rock it hopped on, but she could see the tiniest movements it made when it blinked. Growling, she leapt from the grass and pounced on the toad. She beamed when she cupped it in her hands and ran as fast as she could back into the mountain. She was so excited that she hardly felt herself run straight into Ritta.

Helena blinked and looked up at the tall huntress. "Hello, Ritta," she said with an innocent smile.

Ritta looked down at her and curled her lip. "Hello, little one," she said with a sour tone. "Just what are you doing out of the mountain this late at night?"

Helena shrugged and continued wearing her best innocent face. "Nothing," she chirped. "What are _you _doing?"

"Oh, nothing." Ritta jutted her hip and crossed her arms. "What's that in your hands?"

Helena held out her hands and opened them just enough so that the huntress could see the little amphibian. "A toad."

Ritta wrinkled her nose at the toad. "You're bringing _that _back into the mountain?"

"It's for Petra," Helena said with a frown on her small mouth. "They bring good luck."

The huntress knelt and placed her hands on her knees. "Can I hold it?"

"Be gentle with it," Helena said. She let Ritta take the toad from her hands. "Don't hold it too tight or it might—_hey!" _She growled and latched onto Ritta's arm when she squeezed the toad until it burst. Ritta flung its dead body into the river and pushed Helena away from her. "Why did you do that!"

"No servant deserves such a sentiment," she spat.

Helena clenched her hands into fists and bit her bottom lip. Her shoulders quaked as she fought to keep her tears at bay. Ritta only rolled her eyes at the tantrum and started walking away from the Alpha's youngest. "I'm telling Ivor," she growled.

Ritta spun around, her eyes flashing at Helena. "Oh, the little puppy's going to run to her big cousin for help, is she?" She knelt in front of her and cupped Helena's chin. The Alpha's daughter hissed and bared her teeth at her, but Ritta didn't seem phased. "You aren't going to tell Ivor anything."

"How do you know?" Helena asked.

"Because if you tell Ivor, then I'll show him Petra's drawings." Ritta smiled coldly in victory when Helena blanched. "And you and I both know who Petra _adores _drawing."

"Y-you don't know where her drawings are," Helena said. She raised her chin. "You're lying."

"Oh? Do you want to bet, little puppy?" Ritta puckered her lips and pat Helena on the head. "Go sharpen your claws before you start another fight, little Helena."

"I'll tell my father," Helena growled.

"Tell him what, exactly? 'Oh, papa, Ritta killed a toad I caught for my pathetic servant friend!' Where's your proof that I ever did such a thing, Helena? Your toad's long gone. How ever will the Alpha believe you without seeming biased?"

Helena's face flushed and she pressed her lips in an angry line. Her tiny fists shook at her sides, and she had to use all of her willpower to keep from clawing at Ritta.

"That's right, little Helena. You aren't going to do _anything." _Ritta scrunched Helena's cheeks together before her long legs carried her away from the Alpha's daughter.

Helena seethed and rubbed her chin where Ritta's claw-like grip had been moments before. "We'll see," she hissed in a solemn promise.

* * *

"If you _ever _cuddle yourself around me again, Francesca, I will mount your manhood as a trophy right above the candle by the hearth upstairs. They'll rename the place, aye, and call it Pinkiehearth Hall."

"Oh, I'm sorry; I mistook your chest hair as the billowing locks atop a buxom wench's head. Dibella, you can _braid _your chest hair."

Vimund snorted and crossed his arms. "Aye? That so? Well, _you _make sounds in your sleep."

Francis beamed and fell back onto the bed. "Indeed, I do! I can't help it if I have erotic dreams of women, wine, and gold."

"Hmph." Vimund shouldered his axe. "Aye. We'd best see if the Dragonborn and Miss Shêzanaré are awake yet."

"Always the voice of duty and responsibility," Francis sighed.

"Someone has to be, aye."

He knocked on Isben's door and waited. When no one answered, he knocked again. "They're probably still sleeping," Francis said with a yawn. "I know _I _want to go back to bed. My dream had the _loveliest _woman—"

Vimund ignored him and knocked again. When the door opened part way, he peeked inside and smiled to himself. The Dragonborn was curled on the edge of the bed closest to Shêzanaré so that his blanket draped over her as well.

"—and she sang the sweetest song when she—"

"Oy, quiet," Vimund barked. Francis pouted and tried looking over the big Nord's shoulder. When he stood on tiptoe and still couldn't see anything besides Vimund's broad frame, he scurried around him and into the room.

The thief shrugged. "It was a cold night. Without your beard or chest rug, I would have froze. Windhelm isn't for Imperials." He paused and added, "I think Ulfric made it that way." Francis knelt beside Shêza and tapped her forehead. He squawked when her hand shot out and latched around his wrist.

Shêza opened her eyes and glared at the thief.

"Good morning, Dragon-Lady," Francis said with his best smile. "And what a lovely day it is today, no? The sun is out, the ale is serving, the ladies are lovely, my hand is almost detached from my body—" He tried tugging his hand back, but her grip only tightened. He chuckled nervously and scratched his head with his free hand. "Can I have my hand back? Please? I'll buy you some arrows."

She hummed and a lazy grin spread across her mouth as she released his hand. "I'll hold you to that."

Francis forced himself to grin and promptly moved behind Vimund. "She's still smiling at me," he said to the Nord. "It's making me nervous." Shêza bared her teeth in a mock grin. Francis ducked his head and whimpered.

Isben stretched his arms out and rubbed his eyes. "Since everyone else is awake, I suppose I should be as well."

"And good _morning _to you—"

He waved Francis quiet and yawned. "Is it still a blizzard outside?"

"Ah, yes, the blizzard. While it passed over, it left some snow behind it. More damnable snow," Francis muttered. "Do we have to go out in it? I'd much rather prefer staying inside with the hearth, a warm meal, a strong drink—"

Isben cocked his brow and narrowed his eyes at the little man.

Francis slouched. "Sorry. Wishful thinking."

* * *

"This city is like a maze," Isben said as they carried—all except Francis—the crates of potions and ingredients. "If I didn't have a map, I wouldn't be able to find anything."

"Ulfric likes confusing people," Francis said. He glanced over at Vimund. "I bet he has a chest rug, too."

"Why don't you go check, Francesca? Aye. He'd probably enjoy entertaining the little Imperial man whose curiosity would be the death of him."

Francis laughed and walked abreast Isben. "You're lucky you're only half Nord, Dragonborn. You would have had all of your pa's locks of Nord if you weren't."

"I wouldn't know," Isben said as he adjusted his grip on the crates. They entered the small marketplace situated on the west side of the city, and he swept his gaze over the stalls, his eyes settling on a display of bows and arrows.

Shêza followed his line of sight and tilted her head at the archery equipment.

"How so?" Francis asked, bringing Isben out of his thoughts.

"I never met my father," Isben said with a shrug. He locked his gaze with Shêza's.

"Oh," Francis said quietly. He cleared his throat and looked up at him. "You... you weren't an... a you know..."

Isben grunted and shook his head. "No, I wasn't an accident. Were you?"

"No, not by far," Francis said with an impish smile. "My folks wanted a little bundle of joy." He held his arms in a cradle and rocked them to and fro.

"And then they had you instead," Shêza snickered. Francis glowered at her.

"Lucky us," Vimund harrumphed. "Talos must be laughing at me."

"On the contrary," Francis said with a lewd sneer twisting his lips, "my bundle certainly brings people joy. Particularly to the ladies."

Isben made a sound from the back of his throat and uttered a chuckle before pushing open the doors to The White Phial.

"I'll be fine," an older Altmer man wheezed from behind the counter. He shooed his assistant away, but the young man shook his head and put his hands on his waist.

"Master Nurelion, you're far too old for this sort of journey." The assistant frowned in concern and reached out to support the Altmer when he swayed side to side. "We don't know what's inside—"

Nurelion waved his hand at his apprentice and shrugged out of his grip. He stumbled again and barely caught himself on the counter. He coughed and doubled over. "I'll... I can... just—" He covered his mouth as another fit of coughs wracked his frail body.

"You see? You're not well, Master Nurelion!" Nurelion's assistant took his hand and escorted him to a chair. "You just sit, and I'll fetch you some tonic."

Nurelion scowled but let the young man lower him into a seat. "If there was a tonic that could help me, I would have found it by now," the old Altmer managed to say between coughs. His assistant hurried off into a back room, nevertheless.

Isben cleared his throat and set his crate on the counter. "I'm sorry for interrupting, but I have a delivery from Arcadia of Whiterun."

Nurelion coughed and grasped the arm of his chair. "Quintus! Make yourself useful and see to this gentleman, will you? And forget the tonic, boy!"

"Quintus?" Isben muttered. "I know that name."

Quintus reappeared from the back room with a potion and cane in his hands. "Very sorry, I just had to—" He gaped and stared at Isben, his eyes blinking in disbelief. "Master Isben? Is that you?"

"Quintus Navale?" Isben said with a dubious smile. "Ah, yes, it is you, Quintus. Still trying to grow chops, I see."

Quintus beamed and absently handed Nurelion the potion and cane, oblivious to his master's complaints and nagging. "Divines, Master Isben! I never expected to see you again, and certainly not in Skyrim of all places!"

Vimund put his crate beside Isben's while Shêza glanced between the Dragonborn and Quintus. "You know each other?"

"Of course I know Master Isben!" Quintus said with a matter-of-fact voice. "He's the best alchemist the University ever had! He introduced alchemy to me. Master Isben is a fantastic teacher."

Nurelion coughed and shifted in his seat. He waved his cane in the air and sputtered, "If you're done chattering, Quintus—"

"Did the University release you?" Isben asked as Quintus started counting out his payment.

"Oh, no," he said. "I left on my own. Your teaching was very helpful, but I could feel the Thalmor sucking away your authority. That's when I heard of Master Nurelion; I couldn't pass this opportunity up. He isn't exactly a teacher, but I learn much from watching him work."

"Hmph," Nurelion grumbled.

"And not just alchemy, either," Quintus said. "Master Nurelion also knows a few spells." Vimund shuddered, and unpleasant lines drew across his face. "Though I must say that Master Sauveterre was much more knowledgeable in that area. How is he, by the way? Still holding his night classes?"

Isben laughed and nodded. "Of course. He still insists that post supper time is the best time to learn."

Quintus held out the pouch of gold for Isben, but Francis's nimble fingers snatched it before the Dragonborn could. "I'm glad the Thalmor didn't lay him off. It's wonderful what I've learned from you two and Master Nurelion. Only, I'm afraid I won't be learning for much longer," Quintus said with a sigh. He glanced at Nurelion, who was coughing into his sleeve.

"Is there no cure for him? Maybe I can look into it," Isben offered.

Nurelion wheezed and frowned at Isben. "A little scamp like you thinks he can succeed where I've failed? Pah! The young and their naivety," he muttered. "If you want to be of assistance, then there _is _something you can do for me. Something that's far more important than finding a cure for this old man's disease." When he saw he had Isben's attention, he coughed and motioned about the room. "Grab yourselves some chairs and listen closely."

"Grandpa's going to tell us a story now?" Francis asked with a playful wink.

Nurelion frowned and wrinkled his face at the thief. "But you, you no-good rascal," he said, pointing his cane at Francis, "can sit on the floor."

* * *

"You are sure helping this old man is the right thing to do?" Vimund asked as they exited The White Phial. "He's a mage, lad, and doesn't worship Talos."

Isben sighed and turned to face the Nord man. "What would you have me do? He's practically in his deathbed, Vimund. If it was you in his position, wouldn't you want someone to help you achieve your life's dream? This is important to him. At least he'll find some peace before he passes on into Sovngarde."

Vimund crossed his arms and harrumphed. "Sovngarde does not welcome Altmeri mages who do not have any beliefs in Talos."

Isben didn't say anything; he only turned and walked further into the marketplace. Shêza offered a blank look at Vimund before padding after Isben. A guard approached and halted them. "You four are newcomers to Windhelm, are you not?" he asked.

Shêza shifted on her feet. She never did like how guard helmets covered the entire face, save for the eyes.

"Yes. We just arrived last night. Why, is there a problem?" Isben asked. He shot a suspicious glance at Francis. He gawked and held his hands up.

"There have been reported murders about town," the guard said. "There was another just at the break of dawn this morning: a woman from Candlehearth Hall. Susanna the Wicked. Her body was found in the graveyard, mutilated beyond recognition. Her eyes and tendons were cut out. The townsfolk call the killer 'The Butcher.' If you see or hear anything else about these murders, please report it to the guard at once."

"Will do," Isben said. "Thank you for informing us."

The guard nodded and paused before turning away. "These are dark times, traveler. Word reached us that in Riften, that old woman running the orphanage died. The guards investigated and deemed it a terrible accident. Those poor children must be heartbroken."

When the guard returned to his duties, Francis doubled over and choked in the palm of his hand. "Grelod the Kind? Those children? _Heartbroken? _Oh, Dibella, how word travels, indeed! Oh, why do I miss all of the gossip whenever I choose to leave Riften?"

Isben didn't lift his gaze from Francis. "About this Susanna the Wicked..."

"Another conquest of yours?" Shêza muttered.

Francis bobbed his head up and down. "We had a little tumble, yes."

Vimund's face turned as white as a sheet. "In the same bed _I _slept in?"

Francis chuckled and shrugged. "Where else were we supposed to do it?"

Isben folded his arms over his chest. "Is this the Susanna that flirted for good tips?"

"Well, she gave _me _a good tipping last night," Francis purred.

Shêza grimaced and muttered beneath her breath.

"And how strange she's murdered the next morning," Isben said.

Francis took a step back and shook his hands. "Whoa, there, Dragonborn. I may be a lady killer, but I don't take the term literally. Why would I murder a pleasurable woman? That's just one less woman for me to have fun with, then."

"Aye," Vimund said, slowly nodding his head. "He isn't the murder type. I've seen assassins up close—seen their eyes and how black and lacking they are. He's not one of them."

"Now that we have that cleared up," Francis began, "are we going after the murderer? Chances are he'll strike again, and I'll be damned if I let another pretty lady get the knife. Well, any knife besides mine, if you know what I mean." He waggled his eyebrows.

"You mean your toothpick?" Shêza cackled.

The thief hunched his shoulders and puffed his cheeks out.

"The killer's probably laying low," Vimund said, coming between Shêza and Francis. "He'll wait until suspicion dies down until he makes another move."

"It could be a 'she,'" Shêza said. "Maybe that's what she wants: make the guards think the killer is a man."

"Why would a woman kill another woman?" Vimund asked.

"That's easy: jealousy," Francis said. "I've had ladies claw themselves to get a little sampling of Little Francis plenty of times."

"They must have been so disappointed afterward," Shêza mused. "Probably didn't come back for more."

"We'll look into it," Isben agreed. "But after we help Nurelion. If Vimund's right, we have some time before this 'Butcher' finds another victim."

"And if we go snooping about when the killer's paranoid and blending in with the common folk, then we'll ruin our opportunity to catch them. I'm not so much a detective, but it's a solid plan, Benny."

"Aye. We'll stock up on supplies now, and then head out to Forsaken Cave."

* * *

**A/N:**

**The two quests in this chapter are 'The White Phial' and 'Blood on the Ice'. I'll be adding a little twist to Blood on the Ice ;)**


	23. Dues & Payment

Skyrim belongs to Bethesda. Any OC/plot twist or idea you do not recognize belongs to moi. And before you start reading, check out this fanart of Isben Varriel made! **h.t.t.p.:././.z.e.t.o.b.i.c.h.a.n...t.u.m.b.l.r... c.o.m./.i.m.a.g.e./40647248788** (remove excess periods). Now you can read! Enjoy!

* * *

_They don't call this place 'Forsaken Cave' for nothing, _Francis thought as he rubbed his hands together in hopes of warming them up. He felt as if his nose would fall off at any given moment, and was _positive _that another protruding portion of his anatomy was trying to curl in on itself to ward off the cold. He frowned at Vimund; the big Nord man seemed indifferent to the icy cave walls and chilled atmosphere.

Just past the beginning tunnels of the cave were two ice wolves feasting upon an elk that had chosen the wrong cave to find sanctuary in. Francis sniffed and rubbed his knuckles, preparing for a fight. Ice wolves weren't his particular cup of tea—anything related to wolves wasn't—and though he prided himself in being a smooth talker, he had a feeling that the beasts weren't conversationalists.

* * *

"This is more tomb than cave," Isben said as they ventured further into the Draugr crypt.

"I don't care _what _it is," Francis said. "It's still colder than Winterhold's feet, for Dibella's sake."

Shêza limped alongside Isben and narrowed her eyes at Francis when he continued pouting. In her eyes, the thief had no reason to complain; _he _wasn't the one that pushed the twat-some half-elf out of the way from the ice wolf's snapping jaws. Even though Isben had given her a healing potion, her leg still hurt and stung whenever she put weight on it.

"Hear that?" Francis asked. "Squish, squish, squish." He offered a smile to Isben. "You know how I like squishy, fleshy things."

"Aye, well, I don't think this is what you had in mind," Vimund chuckled as a group of Draugar came stumbling toward them.

Francis gagged and whimpered. "Oh, Dibella, _no."_

* * *

"Oh, yes. Oh, _yes. _Yes, yes, _yes," _the thief breathed out when he saw his prize perched on a platform. "Do you see that?" There was a dreamy look in his eye, and his jaw hung agape. Isben rolled his eyes when he saw a string of drool slip out from his mouth. "A treasure chest," Francis said with a mesmerized voice.

"Don't go counting your chickens," Isben said, "before they hatch."

Francis outstretched his arms as he started walking toward the stairs leading to the chest. "I do _love _me some chests," the thief hummed.

Shêza nocked an arrow when she heard something click in the room. She growled and aimed her shot at the coffin in the center of the chamber. "I don't think it'll be chickens hatching," she hissed.

Vimund entered into a defensive stance as he heard more pounding on the coffin. He held his axe in both hands, his muscles flexing in anticipation of the fight that was sure to come.

"Francis," Isben started, keeping his eyes on the coffin while groping for his sword.

Francis ignored him as he started fumbling with the chest's lock, humming to himself and wearing a giddy expression.

"Francesca!" Vimund barked just as the lid came popping off of the coffin. A gnarled hand encased in a gauntlet reached out from the coffin, and the Draugr slowly pulled itself out. Shêza and Isben shared a glance when they recognized the spiky armor the Draugr wore.

"On your guard," Isben said quietly. The Draugr Deathlord pointed its sword at Isben, and Vimund immediately took a step in front of the Dragonborn. The Draugr's glowing blue eyes seemed to flash as it cackled in amusement.

_"Qiilaan us dilon!"_

Isben felt something move in his mind and then itch in his throat. Before he could stop himself, he hissed back, "_Neh."_

Shêza didn't wait for the Draugr to land the first blow. She released her shot, the arrow narrowly missing the Draugr's eye and bouncing off of its helmet. It charged at Vimund and Shêza, its sword drawn and a spell brewing in its free hand. Vimund roared and blocked the Draugr's swing with his axe. He twisted his wrist, trying to wrench the Draugr's blade away from him, but he had to step away from their locked stance when the spikes on its helmet threatened to gouge his cheek open.

Isben took up the right while Vimund hacked at its left side, trying to find an opening in its thick armor. When the sounds of more lids flying off of coffins reached his ears, Isben shouted over his shoulder, "Keep them off of us!"

Shêza turned her arrows toward the Draugr Deathlord's lesser kin, finding marks in their knees and crippling them. She dropped her bow and darted to the side when a Scourge tried forcing her into a corner with a frost spell. She growled and unsheathed her dagger before charging at the Scourge.

Isben coughed and saw stars when the Deathlord landed a booted foot in his stomach. He grit his teeth together and choked out, "_Fo!" _Ice formed in the air, showering the Draugr in a light sheet of icicles. It froze its sword arm in place momentarily, but Vimund saw the opportunity for what it was. He yelled and swung his axe in the Deathlord's exposed flesh right where its neck met its shoulder. Bone snapped and flesh squelched as blood spurted from the wound. Isben braced his arm and stabbed his sword in the Draugr's knee.

He screamed as something cold and sharp punctured his flesh, and his grip on his sword loosened enough for it to slip from his fingers. He fell back, clutching his side and staring in horror at the icicle that protruded from his body. He blinked and took in rapid breaths. Images of Bleak Falls Barrow came to mind, of the Draugr's putrid breath in his face, its sickening gaze as it took pleasure in the Dovahkiin's pain.

From the back of his mind, he heard Vimund bellowing something and Shêza shrieking. He could only stare at his hand when he pulled it back from his side. It was covered in his blood—_sticky, warm, running down his arm and staining his clothes. _His vision blackened for a moment, and he felt the familiar feeling of bile rising to his throat.

"Benny? Oh _no, _not today, you don't!"

Francis jumped on the Deathlord's back and banged a goblet against its helmet. The Draugr snarled and grappled uselessly at Francis. The thief grunted and maneuvered the Draugr into the wall, still smashing the now dented goblet against its helmet. "Big and hairy, I can use some assistance here!"

Vimund glanced at Isben before rushing to Francis. The thief climbed further up the Draugr's back, and Vimund impaled his axe in the space he provided for him. Francis yelped when he felt the blade of the axe nudge against his groin. "Watch that, would you?"

Shêza finished off the last of the Draugar with a twist to the final one's neck. She tore through Isben's pack, making a face at the mushrooms and Hircine knew what else he managed to collect, and pulled out a healing potion. She tugged the stopper out with her teeth and watched as he pulled the bloody ice shard from his side.

"If I thought I was covered in Draugar guts before," Francis started with a huff, "now I might as well live down here with them. By Dibella, _look at me!" _He plucked viscera from his fitted leather armor and scowled at the blood staining him. "We are _never _going in another tomb crawling with undead, living, breathing, walking, dormant, squishy-footed Draugar again! I'm tired of riding their backs! The only backs I like riding are—"

"Even if they're female?" Vimund wrenched his axe out of the Deathlord's body and rolled it over onto its back once it hit the floor. Francis gaped while Vimund guffawed and slapped the thief on the back.

"She—she practically did Ben in! Shot an icicle at him! Almost took out one of my eyes with those spikes, too. What kind of woman would—" He looked over to Isben when he heard him groan. His eyes roved over to Shêza, and the thief bit his lips to keep from smirking. "Oh. _That _kind of woman."

"I'm fine," Isben said. He shooed Shêza away and wobbled on his legs. "Just... the potion working." He hobbled up the stairs to the chest and frowned when he noticed it was empty. He gave Francis an accusing look.

"In my defense," the thief said, "there was hardly anything valuable in it." When Isben's face didn't soften by even a fraction, Francis crossed his arms. "Oh, Dibella! You know I like treasure! This is the highlight of our little escapade into this appropriately named hub." He glanced around at the walls and ceiling. "Charming, isn't it?"

Shêza hissed and poked him in the chest with her bow. "Your greed almost had us killed, little man."

"Oh?" Francis's green eyes lit up and he smiled a toothy grin at her. His eyes never left hers as he whispered, "And who are you to lecture me on _virtus? _You, a hunter and worshiper of Secunda." She swallowed and narrowed her eyes at him as she understood what he alluded to. When Vimund rolled his eyes and climbed the stairs to steady Isben, as the Dragonborn was pressed up against one of those orgasm-inducing Walls, Francis took a step closer to Shêza and hissed in her ear, "And what is that expression our kind like to say? Oh, yes: sharpen your claws before picking a fight."

She growled and whirled away from him, her nostrils flaring and cheeks flushing in anger. She folded her arms over her chest and stared at Isben. When he was recovered from the energy seeping from the Wall, she said, "What now?"

He blinked at her sharp tone and cleared his throat. "I'm hypothesizing that the Draugr," he pointed at the one Vimund had impaled, "was Curalmil."

"Your friend didn't say Curalmil was a woman," Vimund chuckled. He wore a thoughtful expression as he mused, "It's a pity, aye. Imagine the kind of woman she was when she was in her prime." He lowered his head. "A true daughter of Skyrim, no doubt."

Shêza rolled her eyes.

"I doubt even Nurelion knew her gender." Isben walked further into the ruins, Shêza staying abreast to him. "We must be close to the phial. If that was indeed Curalmil, it should be near. I know I wouldn't let something precious of mine out of my sight." He glanced to his side and ducked his head when she met his gaze. He coughed and fixed the holder in his hair. "Right."

* * *

_"Broken?" _Nurelion coughed as he grasped the arm of his chair. He covered his mouth with a handkerchief and struggled to utter, "You ruffians probably cracked it! I should have gone mys—" He wheezed and lurched over in his chair. Quintus held onto his arm and rubbed his back.

"It was cracked when we found it," Isben said. If the man's condition hadn't worsened since they left, he would have been stricter. Curalmil _skewered _him, for Talos's sake!

"Not our fault your little bottle's a piece of junk," Francis said.

Nurelion glared at the thief and waved Quintus away. His apprentice took a step back, wringing his wrists when he saw his master cough again. "I suppose you're expecting me to give a proper thanks for delving into the tomb, anyway," he croaked.

Francis licked his lips when the Altmer took out his coin purse and started counting out the coin.

"Well then, here." He placed five septims in Isben's palm and wore a smug grin at the sight of Francis's face. "Thank you for going in the ruins and achieving _nothing, _you worthless scamps."

Quintus rubbed his forehead and pinched the bridge of his nose.

"Now, leave this old man be so he can die knowing that youth in this world is _wasted. _Quintus!_" _

"Y-yes, Master Nurelion." Quintus straightened his back and ushered Isben and his companions down the stairs. When they were back in the shop, he sighed and shook his head. "I'm sorry for that, Master Isben."

Francis scoffed and waved his goblet in the air. "This dented thing is worth more than five septims! What kind of a joke is this?"

"You kept it?" Isben asked.

Francis shrugged. "It's a souvenir. Know what? That makes it priceless."

"Because it's worthless," Shêza muttered.

Isben frowned at them before turning back to Quintus. "Is there any way to repair the phial? There must be a tome about it. Curalmil would have considered the possibility of it ever breaking."

"Maybe there is, maybe there isn't. I'll have to look into it. Now that we have proof that the phial actually exists, maybe more people will turn up with information."

"Or they might think you broke the nearest phial on your shelf," Francis said.

Quintus smiled sadly and slouched his shoulders. "That's also a possibility." He squared his shoulders and handed a coin purse to Isben. "No matter. You deserve the payment for risking your lives. I hope five hundred septims will suffice, Master Isben."

"Five hundred each?" Francis asked with a gleam in his eyes. He yelped when Vimund stepped on his foot.

"Take care of yourself, Quintus. You'll be an alchemist, yet." He clapped the apprentice on the shoulder and nodded at him.

Quintus smiled and inclined his head. "Safe travels to you as well, Master Isben."

* * *

"So, these murders," Isben said as they retired to their rooms for the night. He leaned against the wall and watched Shêza rub her calf where the ice wolf had bitten her. "Any thoughts on them?"

She hummed and prodded at her leg, wincing when she poked at a tender spot. "Men do stupid things," she said.

"But to kill three women with no connection to each other?" He shook his head and crossed his arms. "It's a bit... unorganized, if you ask me. From the outside, it sounds as if Windhelm just has a lunatic on the loose with a bloodlust for women."

"And perhaps that is what the killer wants," she said. She stretched her leg out and flexed her calf muscles. "Why are you concerned so much? We are not victims."

"Not yet, we aren't. Susanna was a very pretty woman."

She scoffed and glared at her leg as she rubbed it again. "If 'pretty' is synonymous with 'whorish,' then yes. She looked _very _pretty."

"I'm only saying that could be why the Butcher killed her. She was pretty. She had something they didn't. And Francis has a point with jealousy. It could fit into my theory." Her mood soured further at the mention of the thief. When she grunted and continued vigorously kneading her muscles, he sighed and lowered his gaze. "I just don't want another agreeable woman to die."

"As opposed to disagreeable women?"

"That's not what I meant."

She snorted and rolled her eyes. "Of course. They have to be _agreeable _so they can _agree _to you pushing their frilly crinoline away."

"What?" He blinked and clenched his jaw. "What are you saying, Shêza?"

She knew—deep, deep, _deep _down, she knew—that she was being unreasonable and unnecessary with her taunts and ridicule. But just _thinking _about the thief made her blood boil, and _knowing _that this twat thought Susanna the Whore _pretty _was—

"I'm saying you're cut from the same cloth that the thief is," she growled. "Prowling about for women like animals during rutting season."

His gaze hardened and his eyes narrowed the tiniest fraction. "You know that is not true."

"You're right, it isn't." She stood and made for the door, ignoring his confused look. "You only prowl for _agreeable _women."

He pushed himself from the wall and followed her, his brow drawn in a frown. "Where are you going?" She didn't answer; she only closed the door in his face.

* * *

The snow was cold against her bare feet as she stormed through Windhelm. She growled and gnashed her teeth together as the thief's words came lilting back in her mind with the characteristic sneer in his voice. _And who are you to lecture me on _virtus_?_

She wanted to scream at the irony of it all. _Virtue is something the world lacks. It's why my kind stay hidden, _she thought with a grimace.

She heard the crunch of snow behind her and quickened her pace. The twat would just have to come to terms with the fact that she was finished with him. She'd have to usher his bottom up to High Hrothgar somehow so that he could finally face his destiny. The sooner he met with the Greybeards, the sooner she could return to her sanctuary in Riverwood.

The Greybeards would set the twat on the right path. She just had to give him a good kick in the right direction first. Then Skyrim would be saved, she'd be free—

She stopped in her tracks and blinked. The pair of feet behind her also stopped.

Skyrim would be saved. The Dragons would come to an end. Something about that thought troubled her, had her furrow her brow and clench her fists. She exhaled, her breath coming out as a white puff. The twat would have to face the Dragons. She couldn't see him as he was now facing down a Dragon in one-on-one combat. As a hunter, she knew such an opportunity would be glorious, but it would end with the Dragonborn's blood spilled.

There was only one way that he would save Skyrim, and she was loathed to admit it to herself. She wanted to go _home, _for Hircine's sake.

She was so tied in her own thoughts that she didn't hear the rushed steps of someone hurrying toward her. When the figure collided with her, they both let out gasps of surprise. Shêza immediately reached for her knife, her hackles rising as she turned toward the person.

The petite woman wore a cloak with a hood that obscured most of her face. She panted and put a hand to her chest to steady her breathing. "_Je suis désolé," _the woman breathed out. She smiled at Shêza and took in a deep breath. "I did not see where I was going." Shêza almost bit her hand off when she put it on her shoulder. "Are you alright? I didn't 'urt you, did I?"

Shêza shook her head and brushed her hand away. The Breton woman's hood had fallen back a bit, exposing her face. She was pretty, elegantly so. _Or how would the twat put it? Agreeable. _

"Forgive me, I must take my leave. I'm expected elsewhere—are you sure you are alright?"

Shêza nodded and watched as the woman smiled again and walked briskly toward Windhelm's gates. She squinted and scrunched her nose when she caught the faint scent of blood on the woman's cloak. Intrigued, she made to move after her, but a sudden snap behind her made her swivel her head around.

No one was in the street, but there were footprints that did not belong to her. Her beastblood stirred in her blood anxiously. She felt eyes on her, and a growl brewed in her throat as indecision weighed heavily on her mind. Go after the woman, or her mysterious stalker?

"There you are." She jumped and turned back around, her eyes blazing Death at whoever had crept up on her. The wolf inside her made a small whimper in relief when she realized it was only Isben. He raised his hands and carefully approached her. "Easy, it's me."

"Were you following me?" she asked in a quick breath.

"No," he said. He tilted his head to the side. "I just found you now." When she looked behind herself, he gripped her shoulder and moved closer. "What is it?"

"Someone was—" She gasped as a sharp pain ripped through her shoulder, followed by a numbness that staggered her. She swayed into Isben, and if he hadn't righted his balance and put an arm around her, she would have toppled him.

"Shêza!" He held her up and tried to move her hand away from her shoulder. She growled and bared her teeth, damning herself for not going after the woman. Her breath left her in a whoosh as the pain spread throughout her body, and her eyes drooped closed on their own accord. She heard the twat curse, felt him pick her up, and she wished she could have bitten him with the way he was hauling her back to Candlehearth Hall.

* * *

"Poison," Isben confirmed. Vimund and Francis stood at either side of him, the former looking worried while the latter eyed the exposed skin of Shêza's shoulder.

"Will Miss Shêzanaré be alright, lad? She'll recover, aye?"

"She will," Isben nodded. "But her body will be numb for a while yet, at least a few days. She needs rest and appropriate dosages of antidote."

"Did you see the person who poisoned her?"

Isben shook his head.

Francis uttered a _hmph _and rubbed his chin. "No darts?"

"None."

"Well, that leaves an easy conclusion, then." The thief tapped her shoulder with his index finger. "This is from a ring."

"A ring?" Vimund asked. He sniffed in disdain. "No true Nord of Skyrim would resort to such petty play."

Francis beamed at the big Nord man. "Exactly. Nords don't usually invest in anything other than big weapons that they can cleave people in two with."

"Elves then," Vimund said. Isben raised a brow at him. "The city's full of Dunmer," he said in his defense.

"Why go stirring up more shit when they're already in the thick of it?" Francis asked. "No, they wouldn't do this. Half of the city hates them with the other half of Windhelm being themselves. But a _ring, _gentlemen. Focus, focus!"

"Why can't you just tell us?" Isben asked in exasperation.

"This is a process, Benny. A _ring, _my dear Nordic chums."

"Anyone can wear rings. They're commonly used for enchantments." Vimund stiffened at Isben's words.

"Its placement, though, is peculiar. Would Dragon-Lady let a man touch her shoulder? She almost ate your hands when you touched her armpit in Shroud Hearth," Francis said.

"So you admit that it was her armpit and not her breast."

Vimund pursed his lips in confusion.

Francis shrugged. "I take my pleasures when I can, where I can."

"So it was a woman," Vimund said.

"Indeed, it was! Not a Nordic woman, but a woman. Now, what race would prefer using stealth in plain sight and avoid any inconveniences that would ruffle their pampered feathers by drawing a weapon?"

Isben and Vimund turned their heads to each other, both of them smiling when they realized they were sharing the same thought.

"Name?" Vimund asked.

"Maurice Jondrelle," Isben said, his smile growing bigger.

"Occupation?"

"Pilgrim of Kynareth."

"Race?"

"Breton," Isben answered, looking back at Francis.

The thief clapped his hands together and squirmed in excitement. "There you have it, gentlemen! Whoever poisoned Dragon-Spawn here was a female Breton. What poison did you say it was?"

"It's a mix of frostbite venom, canis root, and—" Isben cut himself off and pressed his lips in a line.

"And what?" Vimund asked.

"Human flesh," he finished.

"So, our Breton lass is a poison master," Francis said. He glanced between Vimund and Isben before adding, "And I think we've just narrowed down our suspects on who this Butcher is. A toast, gentlemen." He procured a bottle of wine from the dresser and popped the cork off with his teeth. He poured himself a glass of wine in his dented goblet.

"Rein it in, Fran. Shêza said someone was following her," Isben said before he could take a sip of the wine.

"Following her? Did you see who it was when you went after her?" Vimund asked.

"Case would be closed then, wouldn't it?" Isben said with a sad smile.

Francis paced the room, his goblet of wine still in hand. "This complicates matters. One of them was the Butcher."

"The Breton or the stalker?" Vimund asked. "And how can you be sure?"

Francis pointed to Shêza's still figure. "If you hadn't noticed yet, she's a woman. All of the victims have been women. She was alone, separated from the group, she was vulnerable in the Butcher's eyes. If a poison ring could topple her like this, imagine what a well-placed dart could have done. He could have poisoned her and dragged her away before Benny found her."

Isben looked at her resting form, taking in her pale complexion and shallow breaths. The Butcher was only _moments _away from her. If he hadn't arrived, then—

Francis slumped in a chair. "We don't have enough information. That's our problem. Tomorrow, we ask around town for any rumors, see if we can make some connections."

"It wouldn't hurt to speak with the victims' families, either," Isben said. "They might know something."

Francis nodded. "We'll see if we can find any leads on this Breton woman. I'm willing to bet Nurelion's five septims that she's tied in this somehow."

* * *

Elliot Artunius swept down the tables at the Tiber Septim Hotel—rather, the Aldmeri Magnus Auberge. The Calidia family had been removed once the Thalmor had invaded the Imperial City, claiming its properties for themselves. Elliot turned the corner of his mouth down. The Calidias had been good people, even if their prices were higher than the standards. But the Tiber Septim—Aldmeri Magnus Auberge—was the best of the best when it came to lodging. Oh, and he should never forget that it was not the Aldmeri Magnus _Inn, _or the Aldmeri Magnus _Tavern. _Not hotel, lodge, fleabag, or hostel, either. Divines, _no. _It was the Aldmeri Magnus _Auberge._

He scrubbed the tables clean, making sure to not leave any evidence that it was dined upon moments before. He glanced up from his work, restraining himself from rolling his eyes when he heard laughter coming from the other side of the room. The Thalmor mages at the University _adored _spending their nights socializing and chum-chumming with one another in the Aldmeri Magnus _Auberge_. Not a night went by when they didn't come streaming in through the doors like water breaking through a damn.

"Oh, _Elliot," _the proprietress—oh, Talos no, she preferred _beneficiary—_called from behind her desk. "Elliot, do come here, dearest boy."

"Yes, Filtiladria." He stood in front of her desk, his head inclined and eyes cast to the polished floor tiles.

Filtiladria let out a breath, disturbing some of the feathers dangling in her face. It was the latest custom that unspoken-for Aldmeri women wore feathers in their hair, or so she insisted. He'd seen other Aldmeri women wearing the feathers, only they wore the feathers rather stylishly and _not _combined with a ridiculous hairstyle composed of sticks poking out here and there of a bun that obviously wanted far away from the head it was pinned to.

That, and he was sure that the other women didn't wear the feathers in their faces. It was no wonder she still wore the feathers.

The feathers fluttered once more as she sighed again. She put down her quill and placed her hands on her desk. "Elliot boy, I feel that you've been putting more effort into your duties around my little piece of paradise in this Imperial-infested city." She watched his face carefully for any sign that he had taken offense. When his expression remained neutral, she continued, "Unfortunately, it isn't enough effort. This is an _auberge, _my dearest Elliot. This isn't a cowpen that you Imperials are used to. It is a high-class Aldmeri _auberge." _

"Yes, Filtiladria."

Filtiladria sighed—ruffle, ruffle, ruffle—and smoothed her hands over her desk. "You understand how _gracious _I am for allowing you to work here, do you not? You would be out on the streets with the rest of the Imperials if it wasn't for me." Talos, if his brother didn't make him take this job to keep an eye on Thalmor activity, he'd never be in this _high-class Aldmeri auberge _in the first place.

She crooked her finger, beckoning him closer. He took one step. She ran her fingers against his cheek and chin. She pouted and cooed, "It would be a shame if a lovely boy such as yourself had to fend against the dangers in the world. Wouldn't it?"

"Yes, Filtiladria." Her hands were as cold as the jewels decorating her fingers, and he had to roll his eyes when he noticed she wore a new set of rings and bangles. Elijah owned a mansion and a good deal of land, but even he didn't waste his coin with frivolous indulgences. _Well, he might buy a new pair of slippers every few weeks, but that's only because he tends to set them on fire in rages of anxiety. He doesn't _over_-indulge._

"Oh, I knew you would understand, my lovely Elliot boy."

_Boy, she says, as if I am still in britches torn at the knees._

"Our schedule is quite full for tonight, Elliot boy. The University sent word this afternoon that the professors were planning to have a feast of sorts. Naturally, the Aldmeri Magnus Auberge is the _ideal _place to dine, is it not?"

"Yes, Filtiladria.'

She smiled and tilted her head down, making her look like she had two chins. "The magisters will be here within the hour. You will see to them and serve them in any way they desire, Elliot."

"Yes, Filtiladria."

"Good boy," she purred. She pat his cheek and returned to running her hands on her desk. "Do tell the cooks of our guests. The best we have should be served tonight, including the wine."

Elliot nodded and inclined his head further before making his escape to the kitchens.

"Oh, and _Elliot?"_

He cringed and forced himself to backtrack in front of her desk. When she looked at him expectantly, he whispered, "Yes, Filtiladria?"

She smiled once more, that smile that stretched her painted lips into thin lines that made him want to gag. It looked like eels swimming across her face. "If you disobey my order to shave the fur off of your face again, lovely boy, you will find that my methods to remove such horrendous features will not be pleasant in the least." To punctuate her statement, she clicked her long nails against her desk.

His hand went up to touch his jaw. Sure enough, he felt the beginnings of stubble forming on his face. He cleared his throat and ducked his head. "Yes, Filtiladria. I won't displease you again."

She shifted in her seat and tucked her head in again. "Good," she sighed. His eyes were drawn to her fluttering feathers, and before she could request anything more from him, he hustled to the kitchens.

* * *

"Where _is it?" _Ritta screeched as she tore through the piles of furs in her quarters. She hissed and snarled, foam frothing at her mouth, when she couldn't find what she was looking for. "Where is my snow sabre cat dress?" She screamed in frustration and continued clawing through her clothes. Ivor was to speak with her father in private tonight supposedly about the patrol rotations. It was a wicked plan: Nuel would never show up, but Ritta would in his stead.

And she would be wearing the snow sabre cat pelt that fit her figure and accentuated her curves.

She huffed and threw her head back in a howl. It was _nowhere _to be found. Had the servants not washed it yet? _They had to. I told them this morning it had to be done for tonight! _She wanted to claw her eyes out she was so frustrated. She felt like dragging her claws against the stone walls and ripping out her hair. In blind rage, she tore at her furs, her claws ripping them into shreds.

"Are you looking for something, Huntress Ritta?"

Ritta jerked her head around, her teeth bared in a frenzied snarl at her intruder. Helena stood, Dagfinn clutched in her arms, wearing a face that was far too innocent for any child.

"_You," _Ritta growled when realization dawned upon her. She slowly stood, her form shaking in fury, before looming over the Alpha's youngest. "_Where is it."_

Helena tilted her head to the side. "Where is what, Huntress Ritta?"

"You know what I'm talking about," she growled. When Helena still looked dumbfounded, Ritta clarified. "My snow sabre cat dress."

Helena opened her mouth in a silent 'oh.' "What does it look like, Huntress Ritta?"

Ritta shrieked and slammed her fist against the wall. "'_What does it look like, Huntress Ritta?'" _she mocked in a high-pitched voice. "What do you _think _it looks like, you brat? It's made from _snow sabre cat."_

Helena tapped her finger against her mouth and narrowed her eyes in thought. "Is it white?"

Ritta's claws bit into her palms when she balled them into fists. "_Yes."_

"With grey patches here and there?"

Ritta forced herself to nod.

"Oh!" Helena's eyes lit up, and she beamed at Ritta. "I saw something like that floating down the river not too long ago."

Ritta's wail was deafening and otherworldly, but Helena didn't so much as cover her ears. "You did _what _with my dress? Do you have any idea how much trouble you're in, you spoiled, insolent, nose-picking—"

"But Huntress Ritta," Helena said, "I didn't do an-y-thing."

Ritta forced herself to smile. She knelt in front of Helena and placed her hands on the young girl's shoulders. "That cute face might work with your father, Helena. But it does _not _work with me. Just wait until your father hears about this, little Helena."

"Do you have any proof, Huntress Ritta?" Helena asked, her eyes wide and innocent.

Her breath caught in her throat, her eyes nearly popped out of her skull. The blood drained from Ritta's face, and her mouth opened and closed in search of an answer.

"I said: do you have any proof?"

The huntress closed her mouth, the wolf blazing in her cold eyes. Her nails dug into Helena's shoulders, but the little girl didn't seem concerned. "Get out," she hissed. When Helena still stood there wearing the smallest satisfied smirk in history, she pushed her back and spat, "_I said get out!"_

Helena smiled and hurried out of the distressed female's chambers. Ritta stalked after her, her hackles raised and body ready for a fight. Little Helena wouldn't get away so easily. There was no one in this pack that could stop her from—

She followed Helena to the dining quarters where the rest of the pack was seated and eating their evening meal. Helena skirted through the clusters of her pack members until she reached the lone Brute standing off in the corner. She tugged on his hand, and he scooped her up in his arms. He smiled when she giggled and wrapped her arms around his neck.

Ritta stared in horror as Nyssa started speaking with the Brute, gesturing to the bow in her hands and drawing his attention away from the enraged female standing in the entryway of the chamber.

From over Ivor's shoulder, Helena stuck her tongue out at Ritta and blew her a raspberry.

* * *

**Don't mess with the Alpha's daughters ;) **

**Translations:**

Dragon Tongue:

_Qiilaan us dilon: _Bow before the dead

_Neh: _Never

French/Breton:

_Je suis désolé: _I am sorry

Latin** **I have decided that Imperials speak Latin, just as Bretons speak French**

_virtus: _virtue

**My line breaks in this chapter decided to mess themselves up :l I'll be fixing this in the meantime...**


	24. Interlude: Joining the Legion

Skyrim belongs to Bethesda. Any OC/plot twist or idea you do not recognize belongs to me. *******This is an interlude and is much shorter than regular chapters. Yes, I'm including the Civil War in this, and so I feel it's appropriate that I introduce the Legion recruit. And I didn't want to squish this into the next chapter. I feel as if this deserves its own update. Anywho, enjoy!

* * *

"You Nords and your damned honor," General Tullius scoffed from across the map table in Castle Dour. "Always yammering away about 'honor' this and 'honor' that. When are you people going to realize that honor holds _no _place in this world?"

Legate Rikke narrowed her eyes and clenched her hand into a fist on the map table. "It's the Nordic way to recognize and respect honor, General Tullius. I would appreciate it if you would attempt to understand that."

"Oh, I understand, Legate. I understand _perfectly _how your people are too thick in the skull to think rationally and logically. So, Balgruuf doesn't want protection from the Empire?" General Tullius clicked his tongue and sneered. "Well, that's fine by me. Let Ulfric pillage his village and enjoy the spoils."

"But, sir—!"

"We'll see what happens when Balgruuf comes crawling to the Empire for help. Then he'd know he should have listened to that steward of his."

"A good man, Proventus Avenicci," Legate Adventus Caesennius said from his usual position near the wall. "Knows how to set the traitorous Nords right in Whiterun."

Rikke lowered her gaze to the map, her eyes practically burning holes in the parchment. "Is it not our mission to protect Skyrim from the Stormcloaks and anyone associated with them?"

"It's our _mission, _Legate, to annihilate the Stormcloaks by whatever means necessary. There you go again, blabbering about 'honor.' You Nords romanticize too much. Listen to yourself! We're Imperial soldiers, not troubadours wearing little skirts."

"But I pledged—"

"You pledged to serve the Empire," General Tullius said with a victorious smirk. "And the Empire requires you to serve her by cutting off the head of Ulfric Stormcloak and scattering his little rebellion."

"You seem to know much for a man that has only been in the province for a few months, General Tullius."

General Tullius chuckled and poured himself a goblet of wine. "And look at how much I accomplished with only three months, Legate Rikke. By the gods, you people were upside down and backward before I showed up!" He downed the wine in one gulp before pouring another glass. "If it wasn't for me, the soldiers would still be counting on their words to murder Ulfric."

"Words hold a lot of power," Rikke said. General Tullius raised a brow at her and pursed his mouth into a thin line. "Just look at what Ulfric accomplished with words, General."

General Tullius nodded and walked back to the map table. "Yes, I'm aware, Legate Rikke. His _Shouts. _His Oblivion-cursed _Voice. _His damn accomplishments," he muttered. "You want to know what that man accomplished, Legate? Well, I'll tell you, since I know _so _much. The bastard murdered our High King! He left Elisif a heartbroken widow, and worse, the Empire a devastation! He mustered up 'soldiers' to start a rebellion!" He smashed the goblet on the table, not caring for the wine that spilled out of the cup and onto the map. "And all you Nords do is boast about 'Talos' and 'glory' and 'honor.'

"What is it that you people accomplished, Legate? _Nothing."_

Rikke's brow furrowed into a severe line, and her lip curled back in anger and disgust. "How dare you—"

"General Tullius!" An Imperial soldier hurried into the room, flushed and breathless.

"What is it?"

"General Tullius, Hadvar's returned!"

"Hadvar?" General Tullius straightened himself and waved a hand at the soldier. "Send him in, then."

The soldier inclined his head. "He isn't alone, General. A woman is with him."

"A women, eh? So, he's been whoring himself away since Helgen. Bring him in, boy."

The soldier nodded and jogged back into the antechamber.

"Hadvar?" Rikke asked. "The name's not familiar to me."

"He's a soldier without an official office."

"Ah," she murmured. She turned her attention back to the map as the soldier returned and opened the door, leading Hadvar and his company into the room.

General Tullius frowned at the sight of Hadvar using an unfamiliar woman as support. The young man favored his left leg, and the general eyed the blood-stained bandages on his thigh. With one arm slung around the woman's shoulders, his free hand gripped the fur of a mangy dog.

"General Tullius," Hadvar coughed. He did his best to bow, but winced when he put pressure on his leg. "Reporting back from Helgen, sir."

"At ease," the general said when he saw Hadvar try to straighten up into a salute. "It's been over a month, almost two, Hadvar."

Hadvar nodded and hobbled over to a vacant chair with the help of the woman. "Aye, General Tullius."

"I thought you dead." There was a question in his statement, one that Rikke heard but paid no mind to as she continued making sketches on the map.

Hadvar eased himself into the chair, his fingers digging into the woman's shoulder and pulling against the dog's fur. The hound whined and nudged the Nord man with his nose. "That damn Dragon almost finished me off," he said. "I almost lost a leg because of that cursed monster."

"Almost?"

"I wouldn't have made it," Hadvar said, "if it wasn't for her." He motioned toward the woman, and General Tullius took a moment to look her up and down. Her armor was broken beyond repair, and chunks of metal hung on by mere strips of leather. She was a warrior, he concluded, based on her mohawk and war paint. Adventus snorted at her appearance and rolled his eyes.

"I holed up in a cave a little ways from Helgen," Hadvar continued. "I could barely walk, and the cave was like a godsend from the Divines Themselves. I thought I would rest and recover before making the journey to Solitude, but I had another think coming."

"This one didn't know the cave was infested with trolls," the woman said.

"And you are?" General Tullius asked, raising his chin at the woman.

"Ides. Ides Vulso." She clasped her hand with the general's, and he wasn't surprised at all by her firm grip and calloused palms.

Rikke briefly glanced at the woman before studying the map again.

"A fellow Imperial," General Tullius said. "Always a pleasure to have more in Solitude."

"General," Hadvar began, "Ides is interested in joining the Legion. I can personally vouch for her. She's an excellent warrior and is an opponent to be feared in combat. She slayed the trolls in that cave and saved my life."

Rikke looked up again and scrutinized Ides. "What manner of warrior are you?" the Legate asked.

"Battlemage mercenary," she said. The general uttered a 'hmph' and paced to the other side of the room. "Is there a problem?"

Adventus gave Hadvar a stern look that made him feel like a prepubescent boy being scolded by his mother. "This isn't a business, soldier. We don't take in bloodthirsty mercenaries that only work for coin and glory. This is _politics _and _war._"

"I'm well aware of the Civil War, sir," Ides said. "And I'm also aware that I'm due for some respect, seeing as how I saved the life of General Tullius's soldier and escorted his hide here." On Hadvar's other side, the dog growled.

"Nor is the Legion a charity," Legate Adventus Caesennius continued, as if she hadn't said anything. "If we allow you into our ranks, you receive food, shelter, and new armor." He wrinkled his nose at the pitiful mangled up steel she wore. Apart from its battered condition, there was a most foul and curious stench coming from it. Or maybe it was the dog. "How do we trust that you will not steal away at the first opportunity once you are outfitted?"

"On my honor," Ides said, pressing a fist over her heart.

Adventus chortled and wore a dubious grin. "A mercenary's honor? By the gods, it's worse than I thought. You see, Legate? Your people have infected my people with these romantic notions."

Rikke bit the inside of her cheek and made a sound from the back of her throat. "I think we should give her a chance, General." Ides looked over at the woman, and Rikke's mouth twitched—a ghost of a smile—when she saw the determined fire in her eyes.

"Did you fall into the mead again, Legate?" Adventus sneered.

"I would appreciate it," General Tullius said in a quiet, murderous tone, "if you did not make the Legion out to be fools, Legate Caesennius, else I will strip you of your rank and dump you on Ulfric's doorstep."

Rikke's mouth turned up in a smile, and she refused to make eye contact with the scorching glare Adventus shot her way. "So, we are in agreement, General Tullius? I propose a test to see if she qualifies to be part of our cause."

"I trust her with you, Legate Rikke. But," he said, taking a step closer to Ides. She met his gaze without hesitation, and she found the hair on the back of her neck rising in alarm when she saw the cold, unforgiving look in his eyes. He was not just an old man—though, his grey hair was the first thing she'd noticed—he was a battle-hardened warrior that had seen the most gruesome of atrocities and lived to tell about it. There was something in the lines about his eyes and the firm set of his mouth that made her want to ready a shock spell his way, but she refrained.

Adventus saw the sparks dancing between her fingers and took a step forward. Even when the sparks died, he kept his hand on the pommel of his sword.

"But if you so much as _think _of taking advantage of my Legion, you will suffer a fate far worse than if I painted the Legion emblem on your hide and delivered you to Ulfric Stormcloak's palace in Windhelm without a stitch of clothing." He loomed over her, his face drawn in shadow as his forehead practically touched hers. "Do I make myself clear?"

Ides nodded and scratched her dog behind the ear when she felt him butt his head against her thigh. "Yes, General Tullius."

"Good." He stepped away and glanced at Hadvar, noticing that the man was trying to peel away his bandages to see his wounds. "As for you, Hadvar, I'll have the healers tend to you." He clapped him on the shoulder, and the Nord lowered his head. "You're a good man for reporting back to us, despite your injuries. You're a valuable asset to the Legion, Hadvar. I won't forget your bravery or loyalty."

Ides's brow twitched from his word choice.

"You'll receive a proper 'thank you' once you pass your test, Imperial mercenary," the general said to her. He wore a feral grin, one that made the lines around his mouth seem harsh and as black as midnight. As quick as it appeared, it was gone, replaced with a calm and authoritative expression. "Adventus!"

"Yes, General Tullius," the Legate grumbled before helping Hadvar stand.

"You, mercenary," Rikke said, her arms crossed over her chest and her head held high. She blew out of her nostrils when Ides didn't salute. "You're going to Fort Hraggstad."

Hadvar gaped and pushed Adventus away from him when he tried pulling him off to the infirmary. He limped toward Rikke, wincing and clutching his leg from the movement. "Legate Rikke, if I may! Fort Hraggstad is home to bandits and Divines know what else! To send one person in alone is suicidal."

"For future references, soldier, _no, _you may not. General Tullius has placed _me _in charge of the mercenary, and I will test her as I see fit. I expect you to keep your mouth closed unless you are authorized to speak by a commanding officer."

Hadvar pursed his mouth and forced himself to give a stiff nod. His nostrils flared as he uttered, "Yes, Legate Rikke." He let Adventus sling one of his arms around his neck before the Legate escorted him away.

Ides glanced at her dog when he gave another whine. "You go with him, Meeko." The dog trotted after Hadvar and licked the man's palm. Hadvar opened his mouth to protest, his eyes filled with disbelief and anger, but Ides cut him off. "My success is none of your concern, soldier."

Rikke glanced between the two, finding some amusement in Hadvar's crestfallen yet infuriated face and Ides's neutral but determined one. Rikke could respect a woman in control, even if she wasn't too fond of mercenaries. And after years serving in the army and honing her abilities, Rikke had grown to trust her instincts. Her instincts were telling her that there was something more to this mercenary. With a swift look over at the general, she knew he felt the same intrigue she did with this strange woman.

"Now listen closely, mercenary," Rikke said, "for I won't repeat myself."

* * *

**A/N continued:**

Yes, Ides is the recruit, and she is a main character in Normalcy Undone. I'll be tweaking the Civil War storyline a bit, but it will still be Legion vs. Stormcloaks. Who will win? Well, we'll just have to wait and see ;)


	25. Bony Findings

Skyrim belongs to Bethesda. Any OC/plot twist or idea you do not recognize belongs to me. Thanks for all the feedback! I hope this chapter sheds some more light on who the Breton woman is, though it's a bit obvious, no? ;) Enjoy!

* * *

"How can you stand them?" Elliot asked as he urged his horse to walk alongside Michel's. "Every night, they come into that tavern—oh, pardon me, _auberge—_and have the most meaningless conversations in Nirn's history. Sometimes I entertain the thought of poisoning their drinks."

Michel Sauveterre sighed and glanced at the boy. Elijah was Elliot's senior by seven years, the former having twenty-seven summers on him. Elliot was impulsive, rash, and it was a miracle that Filtiladria hadn't thrown him out on his rump yet. "I do not listen closely to zeir bickering. You are right: zey 'ave nothing useful to say. Ze gossip of who is sleeping with who is unnecessary, _oui. _I tolerate zem only because I 'ave to."

"But you're not slurping down wine as if it was blessed by Akatosh," Elliot said. "And you don't find amusement in tormenting the serving boy."

Michel chuckled and steered his mount off of the The Black Road. "Zat is because I am not Thalmor. I am not part of a group of 'aughty elves zat sink zey own ze world by right."

"And yet you make appearances at their ridiculous feasts."

The vampire took in a breath and let it out slowly. "Your brozer is already a wanted man, Elliot. If ze Thalmor ever got zeir 'ands on 'im, zey would tear 'im apart. I mingle with ze Thalmor to protect 'im."

"He's not your blood to protect," Elliot muttered.

"_Oui, _'e isn't. But I 'ave grown fond of your family. Elijah 'as welcomed me into 'is 'ome, regardless zat I am a 'unter of ze night. I respect 'im for zat."

The trees of The Great Forest swallowed them up, and Elliot pat his horse on the neck when the beast snorted. "Elijah lives in a dream world, thinking that he alone can stop the Thalmor."

Michel quirked a brow and spurred his horse faster, forcing Elliot's steed into a canter to keep pace with him. "I expected you to support your brozer with 'is ambitions."

"_Ambitions?" _Elliot laughed and shook his head at the vampire. "He's too thick in the skull to realize that his _ambitions _are suicidal. He can't stop the Thalmor—no one can. They're already here, they've already invaded."

"It sounds like you 'ave given up."

He snorted and shot the vampire a dubious look. "I _work _in a Thalmor-crawling inn—_auberge—_for Talos's sake. Have you forgotten that?"

"And I work in ze University zat is controlled by ze Thalmor. Every day, more Thalmor take up ze positions of former professors. Our master alchemy professor went missing recently. I 'ave suspicions zat ze Thalmor are behind zat. But you do not see me bowing down to zem, do you?"

"I am _not _bowing," Elliot said quietly.

"Per'aps. Per'aps not."

"You sound like Elijah now," he grumbled. "Always patronizing me, always making subtle jabs. Is it entertaining, Michel? Do you enjoy this?"

"I always enjoy figuratively smacking spoiled little boys, Elliot."

Elliot huffed and kicked his horse into a gallop. The sooner he reached the Artunius mansion, the sooner he could drink away this miserable night and collapse in bed.

* * *

"Are you sure about this, lad?" Vimund asked as he glanced between Shêza's still form and Isben. "What if you run into trouble? You'll be needing someone who can stand the thick of it, aye."

Isben pinched the bridge of his nose and sighed. "It's a risk, I know. I'm far from being decent at combat, and hand-to-hand fighting can only go so far." He looked over at Francis who was poking Shêza's cheek. The thief was delighted that she didn't wake up in a fit of snarls and snapping teeth to chomp his finger off. "But I need someone to look after her. Fran and I will be back before nightfall. We'll stay in plain sight of the guards."

Francis pouted and scrunched his face up. "That's no fun, Benny."

"Practicality first, entertainment second," Isben said.

"What a depressing code of life," Francis muttered. "You must not have many opportunities to... you know." When Isben raised a brow at him, Francis smirked and added, "You know, 'dip in the inkwell?' 'Rake the field?' 'Stow the jewels?'"

Isben rubbed his temples and shook his head. "Right. We'll be off, then."

* * *

"Can't you leave a man alone to mourn? Please, I-I don't want to talk about this right now," Torbjorn Shatter-Shield said. He crossed his arms over his chest, and the corners of his mouth turned down. "It's bad enough it's all my wife can think about. Friga was our little girl, and that demon, _The Butcher, _murdered her."

"I understand that, sir," Isben said. "I know your family is still suffering, but this killer is still out there. He's already claimed another victim. That's three women he's killed so far. It has to stop."

"Then why don't the guards do something about it? What good are they if they can't even keep us safe?"

"A fine observation," Francis mused.

Isben shot Francis a reproving glare. The thief shifted on his feet and murmured something beneath his breath. "Please," Isben said to the leader of the Shatter-Shield clan. "Please tell us for your daughter. For her sake."

Torbjorn narrowed his eyes and pursed his lips. He clicked his tongue and eventually lowered his head in consent. "Alright, fine. But if my wife hears word of this, there will be Oblivion to pay, stranger."

* * *

"Dragonborn," Francis said as they approached the Palace of the Kings. When Isben kept walking, Francis huffed and grabbed his sleeve. "Listen to me, would you?"

"What?" Isben asked, his eyes darting about Francis's face in impatience.

"This will sound crazy—blasphemous, even," Francis said. When Isben took in a deep breath, Francis continued, "Torbjorn's daughter was skinned. According to the merchant Niranye, Fjotli Cruel-Sea had her blood drained. This doesn't sound like your average killer, Ben, nor does it sound like an alchemist fetching some... _vital _ingredients."

"What are you saying?"

"I'm saying we're dealing with someone of the magicka sort." Francis took a step closer and swept his eyes around them, wary of anyone listening in on them. "I'm talking about necromancy, Benny."

"That's a little presumptuous," Isben said. "I doubt anyone in their right mind would attempt necromancy in the sanctity of a city." He pushed open the doors to the Palace of the Kings and let himself in.

"Oh?" Francis asked. "What necromancer _is _in their right mind, though, I ask?" Francis followed Isben as the Dragonborn approached the end of the dining hall table where a man sat, leafing through papers and scribbling notes down with a quill that had seen better days. "_That's _Ulfric Stormcloak?" Francis snorted and put a hand to his mouth. "Oh, Dibella, _this _is the man that has the Imperials in such an uproar? Divines above, you have a sense of humor, after all."

Isben jabbed Francis with his elbow, earning a squeak from the thief.

"If you're here to join the Stormcloaks," the man said, not once looking up from his papers, "speak to Jarl Ulfric. I'm just his steward, Jorleif."

"I knew it was too good to be true," Francis sighed.

"Then you're just the man we wanted to see," Isben said. Jorleif raised a bushy brow at the two of them, his eyes settling on Francis when the thief helped himself to a sweet roll on the table. Isben cleared his throat and stepped in front of Francis. "We're investigating the killings around the city. Torbjorn Shatter-Shield said you might be of help."

Jorleif put his quill down and exhaled. "I heard about the latest killing. Susanna might have been promiscuous, but she was still a citizen of Windhelm."

"She was also a splendid conquest," Francis said around his sweet roll. When Isben threatened to jab him again, the thief frowned and took another bite of the sweet roll.

"I've been going through people who might have information on the murders," Jorleif said, stacking his papers into a neat pile. "I can offer you names as well as a guarantee that the guards will not interfere with your investigations."

"That would be most appreciated, sir," Isben said with a smile.

"Just call me Jorleif," the steward chuckled. "Talos knows I never receive any formal titles around here. You'll want to visit Helgird in the Hall of the Dead. With luck, she'll still be tending to Susanna's body."

Francis swiped another sweet roll and started licking the icing. "I remember when I tended to that body," he sighed. "It's a shame, really."

* * *

"We're investigating a chain of murders," Isben began as he and Francis entered the Hall of the Dead, "and you're munching away at a sweet roll. Do you have any sense of decency, Francis?"

Francis finished the last bite of his sweet roll and licked his fingers. "Hmm, not really, no. Should I?" He sucked on his thumb and hummed alongside Isben.

"I should have brought Vimund with me instead," Isben sighed. "At least he would have treated the situation appropriately."

"And leave me all alone with Dragon Lady?" Francis waggled his eyebrows. "All alone, behind closed doors, with a bed big enough for two..." He purred and gave a dramatic lick to his forefinger. "It would be most divine, indeed."

"You're not scummy enough to take advantage of a woman. Besides, she'd hang your hide as a banner if you ever tried something like that."

Francis grimaced and hunched his shoulders. "I think she'd use me as a carpet, instead." Francis took a few whiffs and bit the inside of his cheek. "Judging by the smell, I'd wager Susanna hasn't been put to rest yet."

"Lovely." They rounded a corner in the dimly lit undercroft and paused when they heard a woman murmuring to herself.

"Diagonal cut starting from the clavicle and down to the sternum—that just doesn't make any sense. Why would a killer deal a blow like that?"

"This is going to be disturbing," Francis whispered. "I can feel those rolls making their ways back up."

The old priestess glanced up from her work at the two of them. "I'm sorry, but the funeral isn't scheduled yet," she said. "You'll have to wait until I'm done preparing the body."

"We're investigating the killings." Isben walked toward the table where Susanna's body was. He frowned at the gashes and punctures in her skin, and true to what the guard had told them days ago, her eyes were cut out. "This is..."

"Confusing," the priestess said for him. Helgird shook her head at the corpse. "The other victims were given quick and painless deaths. But these gashes," she said, pointing to Susanna's chest and legs, "would prolong suffering."

Isben stared long and hard at the corpse, his brow furrowing further with each passing moment. Helgird was right: the holes in Susanna's body weren't ideal for a quick death. He nearly choked when Shêza's prone form replaced Susanna's, and he blinked to clear his head of such thoughts. Francis peeked over Isben's shoulder and swallowed hard at the sight of Susanna's nude corpse.

"Her coin purse wasn't taken when the guards found the body," Helgird said. "What kind of person would—"

"Taken?" Isben muttered to himself. His eyes widened and he quickly pulled on a pair of gloves at the end of the table. "That's it," he said.

"Benny?" Francis cringed and gasped when Isben started peeling back the ripped flesh on Susanna's thigh. "Benny, that's—_yuck! What are you doing!" _

"She's missing a femur," Isben said. Helgird took a look for herself and gasped when there wasn't any sign of bone in the thigh. "I'm willing to bet..." He poked his fingers in the gaping maw at her shoulder. He nodded his head in confirmation when his fingers didn't hit bone. "They took her bones. Not just her tendons, but her _bones_."

"_What?" _Helgird demanded as Isben rolled the body over onto its stomach.

"Not all of them," he said. He peeled away the skin at the back of the corpse's neck.

Francis scrunched his nose up at the sweet yet metallic odor that came out of the gash. "That's magicka," the thief said.

"The killer snapped her neck," Isben said, "and when she was dead, he mended the bones back together with magicka. He didn't do a very good job, but he gave her a quick and painless death."

"How do you know all of this?" Helgird asked, piercing Isben with her gaze. "You're not a priest, are you?"

"No," he said. "I'm just an alchemist. You learn a thing or two when you rescue soldiers from the brink of death."

"Applause to you, Benny," Francis said, clapping his hands together. "I'm surprised: you didn't even blanch at the sight of bl—" He clamped his mouth closed when Isben's face turned green. The Dragonborn stared at his bloodstained gloves and jerked his head forward. "Oh, sweet Dibella." Francis smiled at a fuming Helgird when Isben lurched over and hurled—thankfully not on the corpse.

* * *

Vimund was cleaning his axe when there was a knock on the door. He heaved himself up from his chair and opened the door. He blinked at the shorter Imperial man before him. "Are you lost, friend?"

"Oh, no," the Imperial said. "I overheard rumors that one of your companions was assaulted last night. It's a horrible thing to hear, what with this killer on the loose."

"Aye," Vimund said. "She had us worried, but she will make a full recovery soon."

"My name is Calixto Corrium. I own Calixto's House of Curiosities here in the city." He shook hands with Vimund, and the Nord man frowned at the buzzing sensation coming from the other man's palm. "I saw Susanna's body in the graveyard," Calixto said quickly. "It was... a gruesome thing that was done to her."

"I heard about her murder," Vimund said. He let Calixto into the room, and the man took the seat near the bed. He stared at Shêza's form, his eyes settling on her legs. Vimund pulled up another chair and offered the man a tankard of ale. "How bad was it?"

Calixto took a swig from the tankard and placed it on the nightstand. He rubbed his palms together and lowered his gaze to the floor. "Her flesh was torn open in numerous parts of her body, as if... as if someone was digging through her. Gods, there was blood everywhere in that graveyard."

* * *

"There's blood _everywhere _in this graveyard!" Francis huffed as he hauled Isben through Windhelm. "Don't open your eyes, Benny. You might turn the snow green, then. What color does red and green make, anyway?"

Isben shrugged out of Francis's grip and pinched the bridge of his nose. He stopped just as his fingertips were a hair's width from his skin, and with a yelp, he opened his eyes and threw off his bloody gloves. "Divines!" He shied away from the blood staining the snow and scurried away.

Francis trudged through the snow after him, and when he finally caught up to the distressed Dragonborn, he grabbed his belt and pulled him to a halt. "Would you just—wait a minute," Francis said, covering his hand over Isben's mouth when he tried to speak. "Would you look at that, Benny." Francis bobbed his head up and down and gestured to the blood stains. "Strange how it almost looks like a trail of blood, no?"

Isben blinked and swept his gaze up and down the trail. "How did the guards miss _that?" _

"Easy: they're useless, lollygagging twits," Francis said. "Come on, Dragonborn. I feel this investigation coming to a head." Francis dragged Isben throughout the city. The citizens they ran by gave them confused looks and scowled at them for causing such a ruckus. The blood led up snow-covered stairs to a small courtyard of houses. "Look around, Benny. We're close; I can smell it."

The houses were either clean of blood or hidden in snow. Francis waded through the snow to another house and paused. He fell to all fours and sniffed at the porch. He shook his head and poked his nose in the snow, taking in a big lungful of air. When Francis resurfaced, he nodded at Isben. The Dragonborn cleared the snow off of a sign just outside of the house. "_Hjerim," _he read, "_home of Friga Shatter-Shield. _That's Torbjorn's daughter." Isben took a step back to look the house up and down. "No one's living here anymore, but it's still property of the Shatter-Shields. We should speak to Torbjorn—"

A distinct click drew Isben's attention to his thieving companion. Francis was crouched at the door, a lockpick and tension wrench in his hands. The thief beamed at Isben and clinked his tools together. "Or we can just break in," Francis giggled. He froze and looked around them. "No one saw that, did they? Brynjolf's always telling me to look before I pick."

Isben shook his head at his companion, but nevertheless followed Francis into the abandoned house. Francis tugged him into a squat, muttering something about stealth and Nords.

"_Whoo," _the thief breathed out. "Look at all this dust here. It's in the air, it's on the floor, in my hair—_ew." _Isben took a step forward and cringed when he stepped on a squeaky floorboard. Francis huffed and crept toward him. "Step where I step, please." Francis followed the blood pools to a chest at the far side of the house. He frowned at the scuffed and scraped floor by the chest. Without a sound, he pried the lid off of the chest and peered inside. He tossed out posters detailing the butcher, and at the bottom of the chest was a journal.

"What is it?" Isben asked as Francis flipped through the journal. The thief tossed the booklet to him, and Isben started to read.

"_The plans are coming together swimmingly. I've found good sources of bone, flesh, and blood, but thus far a good sampling of sinew and marrow have escaped me. No matter. The city is swollen with contemptuous fools who will be missed by nobody. Last night was almost able to corner Susanna as she left Candlehearth. Idiot guard showed up at just the wrong moment and I had to turn about, just out for a stroll, and so forth. There will be other chances, but the time is drawing near. I think back to my time in Winterhold—"_

"Benny," Francis whispered.

"—_All the wasted minds up in their towers. They only explore the magic they already know. I am discovering new magic here. Something deeper than the cantripped shenanigans of fire and light. This flesh magic is older than us. Perhaps older than the world itself. I am tugging at the corners of the universe, and where it bunches—"_

"Ben," Francis whined.

"_—and folds is where I shall create my greatest triumph. One more attempt at the Candlehearth girl. She's proving to be a bit too cautious, but those strong joints of hers should contain the most exquisite tendons. But there is another specimen—two, to be exact. One is a petite Breton _belle _with eyes not quite hazel, not quite green, and not quite blue. Just like _her _eyes. She is a slippery one, though, and is rumored to have been spotted near the Aretino Residence. If I cannot have her, Susanna's eyes will have to do."_

Francis drew his brows together at this news.

"_The other is new to the city. She travels with a group of three other men: one the biggest Nord I have ever seen, the other a girlish Imperial—"_

"That's just rude," Francis huffed.

"—_and the final man is a mutt. She has _her _long shapely leg, her body tight and fitted like that of a sighthound." _Isben paused and opened and closed his mouth. "What does he want with Shêza?" he muttered. Francis put a hand on his shoulder, and Isben whipped his head toward the thief. "_What?" _he spat.

"Benny," Francis said, "there's something dead in this house. Something's... rotting in here. I can smell it."

"Give me a moment," Isben said, returning his attentions to the book. "_I will have those legs. They will be worth the effort. Susanna will be tonight, and tomorrow, I will have those legs."_

"Well, she does have long legs," Francis said. "Although she's a bit too tall for my tastes." He rubbed the stubble on his jaw and puckered his lips in thought. "Come to think of it, they're actually nice legs. Shapely, as this Butcher puts it. Lean and full of muscular power ready for action." He scrutinized Isben, trying to judge his height from his crouched position. "You must be about her height, Benny, give or take an inch."

"He wanted to cut her legs off last night," Isben said, his breaths coming in shorter gasps. "Dear Gods, if I didn't arrive, then—"

"Divines, can you imagine those legs wrapped around your—" Francis cut himself off when Isben's face went as white as a sheet. "Ohhhh, _no, _I know that look. Don't even think about—" He covered the Dragonborn's mouth when he heaved over. "You'll destroy the evidence in this place! _Swallow it."_

Isben moaned but did as Francis said. He gagged on the burning acid that slid back down his throat.

"Now, about this... _stench," _Francis began. He sniffed the air, his nose and face going sour. "Whatever's dead in here has been dead for a very long time. _Oh, _that's bad."

"Let's just hurry it up," Isben choked out. "I need to get back to Shêza as soon as possible."

"Relax," Francis said, waving a hand at Isben as he started walking toward some cabinets. "Big and Hairy is with her. What could happen?"

* * *

"This is a shame," Calixto said. He gestured toward Shêza and sighed. "What monster would target such a lovely creature?"

"Aye," Vimund said, taking another pull from his drink. "Miss Shêzanaré is one of a kind."

"I take it she's not just a bed-warmer for your group?"

Vimund scowled and cuffed the man on the shoulder. Calixto didn't take his eyes off of her for a second. "Nothing of the sort, mind you! She's an honorable woman—a true daughter of Skyrim!" Vimund's expression softened after a moment. He wore a smile as he stared into the distance. "But I suppose there is something between her and the lad, Isben. Aye. A sort of protectiveness."

"They are lovers?" His eyes narrowed at her legs. They were probably flexible, able to bend in all sorts of angles and positions. Just like _her _legs...

"Bah, no. But one thing is for sure: if anyone wanted to harm Miss Shêzanaré, they would have to go through Isben first." Calixto stored this information away and nodded his head. "She is an archer," Vimund continued. "Aye. She has a wicked shot with her bow and arrow, and she isn't afraid to use her hands in a fight, either." He bobbed his head up and down. "She makes Skyrim's Nords proud, that she does."

* * *

While Isben shuffled through more fliers in a shelf crammed between two wardrobes, Francis poked around the cabinets. "He wanted her legs," Isben muttered. An image of Shêza without her legs, those legs that could out-walk him with her smooth gait, popped in his mind, and he swore and clawed at his face to banish thought.

"I'd want long legs like that, too," Francis said. "Do you want to know how hard it is to run with these two stumps?"

"You're not that short," Isben said, still clutching at his hair now freed from its holder.

"I'm not that tall, either." Francis knocked against the wardrobe, making a face when he was met with a hollow thud. His curiosity piqued, he knocked again and put his ear against the wood. "Strange," he grunted.

Isben picked up another stack of fliers. He tilted his head to the side when something slid out of the pile and tumbled to the floorboards with a clink. He scooped the amulet up and held it out to Francis. "What do you think this is?"

"Just a moment—ah, now if I can..." Francis pressed himself against the wardrobe, shoulder first.

"Don't you remember the last time you charged at an immovable object, Fran?"

"Yes, but I have a feeling..." He charged at the wardrobe again. "That this..." He smiled when he heard the wood begin to crack. "Isn't—_whoa!" _He yelped and squealed when he fell through the wardrobe into a room—

A room filled with skeletons, broken bones, tendons, organs, and blood. Isben nearly fainted at the sight of it all, and as the wardrobe opened up all the way, he was hit with the putrid odor of decay.

"_Sweet Dibella!" _Francis shrieked when he crawled backward away from the mess he landed in. He gagged and covered his nose as he picked himself up and investigated the room. Isben stayed right where he was: outside of the hidden room. Francis searched the tables housing skeletons and organs still covered with blood. He picked up a rusted piece of iron and showed it to Isben. "The perfect tool to embalm something with, no?"

Isben groaned when his stomach flipped and flopped. "Can we please leave? I've seen enough blood and internal body parts for a lifetime, Francis."

"Sure, sure—what's that you've got there?" Francis plucked the amulet from Isben's hand, leaving a bloody fingerprint on the Dragonborn's palm that Skyrim's hero hurried to wipe away. Francis sniffed the amulet. "More magicka, and not the warm, fuzzy kind either." He stuffed the amulet in his trousers and stepped out of the hidden room. "Come on. Let's return to Dragon Lady and Hairy."

* * *

"Francesca, I forbid you from walking closer to the bed. You smell like a Draugr!"

"It's not my fault—do I really?"

"You don't move one little toe closer to Miss Shêzanaré! Your stench will poison her further!"

Isben sank into the tub that the proprietress readied for them once she caught wind—literally—of his and Francis's return to Candlehearth Hall. He scrubbed himself free of blood and curious red stringy things clinging to his skin.

"Why does he bathe first?" Francis pouted. "Dibella, I'm confident I even have blood on my _stones, _I'm so soaked!"

"He's the Dragonborn, that's why, and you're—put those trousers back on!"

"See?" Francis said, pointing to his crotch. "This isn't normal, and I'm sure it's not a disease." He shifted on his feet and chuckled. "Pity she's not awake. Every woman loves seeing the jewels swing about."

"I doubt that," Isben said from the tub.

"What? You don't believe me?" Francis beamed and put his hands on his hips. "Did I tell you I can dance? I _love _to dance. I spent a couple of months in a Forsworn encampment once, and oh Dibella, those Bretons know how to move their bodies." He peeled the rest of his unique leather armor off and tossed it to the side. "Like this, see?" He swayed his hips to and fro and then rolled them, moving them in a circle. Vimund swore loud enough to wake the dead, and Isben ran a hand over his face.

"I tell you, Dragonborn: Forsworn nights are _wild. _We should find ourselves a redoubt and stay the night. It'll be fun." He waggled his eyebrows suggestively, making Vimund's nostrils flare and face flush.

"I'll pass." Isben stepped out of the tub and hopped back into his trousers. "Just bathe and hurry to put some clothes on, Francis." Francis squawked when Vimund picked him up and plopped him in the tub.

"Don't forget behind the ears, either, Francesca," Vimund guffawed. Francis muttered to himself as he washed away the day's adventure. He listened as Isben told Vimund of their investigation, occasionally offering his own details.

"We found this," Isben said as he pulled out the amulet from Francis's trousers, "in the house, as well as a room filled with bones and... unspeakable things."

Vimund took the amulet from him and looked it over. "It's nothing I've ever seen. But there's magicka to it. Aye. I've felt this power before, back during the Great War. Damned Thalmor."

"Is there anyone in the city who would know what it was?" Isben asked.

"Maybe Nurelion," Vimund grunted. "I wouldn't put it past that Eight Divine worshiping, bedridden, Alt—" He cleared his throat when Isben drummed his fingers together. "Sorry, lad."

"That old coot wouldn't know the difference between a werewolf and a dog," Francis said. He dried himself off and pulled on one of Isben's tunics. "Besides, he's an alchemist. If Benny doesn't know what it is, then neither does he."

Vimund scratched his neck and leaned back in his chair. "You know, lad, there was a man in here a short while before you and Francine returned."

"A man?" Francis and Isben asked at the same time.

"Aye. He was concerned about the murders and wanted to know if Miss Shêzanaré was alright. He said he owned a shop of curiosities, or something of the like. Maybe he'd know."

"It certainly _is _a curiosity," Francis mused as he swiped the amulet from Vimund and stored it in Isben's knapsack. "Well, we'll be off, then."

"Put some clothes on, you clod!"

"They're all bloody, though! The serving wench needs to clean them, first."

"The serving wench is dead, you buffoon!"

"Oh, yes. I forgot about that small detail."

"I'll go," Isben said as he finished dressing himself. He opened the door and called over his shoulder, "Just watch over her, would you? And keep any sharp, pointy objects away from her legs."

* * *

Calixto's House of Curiosities was in itself a curiosity. The snow seemed to be attracted to this particular portion of the city, and the doorway looked to be in a losing battle against the gusts of wind that only blew up more snow. That, and there was a peculiar smell of rotten cheese coming from the house. Isben knocked on the door, and when he didn't receive an answer, he knocked again. He breathed out in relief when the door opened an inch.

"Yes? Can I help you?"

"Y-yes," Isben stuttered as another gust ripped through Windhelm. "I'm looking for Calixto. I have something he might be interested in."

The man opened the door and ushered Isben into his small abode. "Well, you've found him—hurry, now, the gusts pick up around this time. Evenings are horrible in Windhelm." Isben stamped his feet and glanced around the house before turning his gaze to the owner. Calixto looked like he belonged on one of his display shelves. The man's tunic was backward, his boots mismatched, and his trousers full of patches. "So, what did you say you wanted?"

"Ah, yes, of course." He pulled out the strange amulet and watched as Calixto inspected it.

"Where did you find this?" the older man asked, his voice going ragged for a moment. He lifted his gaze to Isben and studied him hard. "Wait a moment. I know you! You arrived in town just a few days ago. Yes, now I remember you. You're the one whose companion was poisoned. Hmph. Weak lot, if you ask me."

"Yes," Isben said curtly. "I'm Isben." Calixto sat down at a table and brought the amulet closer to his face. "I'm an alchemist."

"Is that supposed to be impressive?" Calixto snorted as he continued peering at the strange amulet.

Isben frowned and stood beside the man. "Maybe you'll be impressed by my other title."

"And what's that? Skyrim's braggart and nuisance?"

"Or the Dragonborn."

"_What!" _The man sputtered and dropped the amulet. He gaped at Isben before groping for the amulet. "Hmph. Must have some strong vocal cords, then." _Maybe like _her _vocal cords._

"Maybe," Isben said.

"If I may ask, Mister _Dragonborn," _the man scoffed, "what business have you with this amulet?"

"I'm investigating the murders," Isben said. "My companion would have been the next victim."

"Ahh, that does complicate things, doesn't it," the man whispered more to himself than to him. "Well, I can bring you one step closer to catching this killer. This here," he tapped the amulet, "is a Wheelstone amulet. I don't suppose you know what that is—oh, no, you don't. It's tradition for court mages to have a Wheelstone. I always knew that Wuunferth was trouble. He's been suspected of foul magic for years."

"The court mage? Wouldn't Ulfric notice necromancy taking place right under his nose?"

"Necromancy?" Calixto asked, his face wrinkling at the mere word. "Whoever told you it was necromancy? Pah, nevermind. If you'd like, I'll buy this little trinket off of you. Divines know you need the money. I saw the condition your lady friend was in. She'll be needing more antidote for that poison soon, and prices are only rising in this day and age."

"How much are you offering?"

"Five hundred septims. It's enough for more antidote. Take it or leave it."

"Done," Isben said.

* * *

"Francis?" Isben blinked as he exited Calixto's House of Curiosities. "What are you doing here—what are you wearing?"

Francis tugged at the expensive robes he wore and shrugged. "I'm not too sure myself, Benny. But I couldn't let you wander around by yourself, not with the Brotherhood hunting you down and this Butcher out and about. Besides," he took a step closer to Isben and whispered in his ear, "they might have a warped interest in half-Nords." He trotted beside Isben, his eyes flashing when he spotted the fat pouch of gold at his waist. He licked his lips and asked, "Did you find anything useful?"

"I know who the killer is—I see you staring at my purse, Francis. It is _not _going to happen."

"Want to bet? And _really? _So, who's responsible for murdering three lovely flowers in this snow-damned city?"

"No, I don't bet. We need the septims for Shêza. Besides, don't you owe her more arrows?"

Francis pouted and blew his lips out. "I was hoping no one would remember that."

"That's wishful thinking for you, eh? Come on, now. Let's put an end to this nightmare."

* * *

"Does this look like a museum to you?" Wuunferth the Unliving demanded as Isben and Francis let themselves into the mage's chambers at the Palace of the Kings. "You two get yourselves out of my quarters this instant!"

Isben and Francis shared a look before the Dragonborn took a step forward. "We just wanted to meet you, sir. We've heard so much about you and your magical works from Winterhold. The wizards say that you are a man of great power."

"Well, if you don't stop gawking, I might release some of that great power on your hides as a little demonstration."

"Your Destruction magicka is highly praised at the College," Isben continued. "I myself started studying the different levels of magicka, and each wizard there places you on a pedestal meant for us students to reach. I admit, I envy you for your abilities."

"They speak of me now, do they?" Wuunferth asked, his tone changing from annoyed to curious. "I thought the College didn't think so highly of me, what with all of these necromancy rumors flying about with my name in the middle of them."

"Necromancy?" Isben asked. From the corner of his eye, he saw a shadow move, and dared not to move his eyes in that direction, lest he ruin Francis's cover. "They are but rumors, sir. The officials at the College know that you do not dabble in the darker points of magicka. But alas, what are professors to do with babbling students?"

"Indeed," Wuunferth said, rubbing his chin. Behind him, Francis browsed through the items on a table by an arcane enchanter. He picked up an embalming tool and turned to face Isben. "What else do they say about me, those childish twits?"

"Th-they..." Isben's voice trailed off as Francis held the tool up and made a show of sliding it across his neck and sticking his tongue out. When Wuunferth started to turn around, Isben quickly said, "There are rumors that you carry items of particular... interest? Y-yes, that's what they said. You house various items containing magical qualities, sir."

"Hmph. That's no rumor, it's the truth."

Isben offered a shaky smile and held his breath when Wuunferth turned around. Francis clapped Isben on the shoulder, making the Dragonborn jump.

"Well," Francis said aloud, "I think we've used up enough of the good mage's time, yes?"

Wuunferth turned back toward them and drew his eyes into slits directed at Francis. "Were you standing next to him the entire time?"

"Oh, yes," Francis said with his best charming smile. Apparently old wizard-men were immune to it. This left the thief only one option to secure their escape. "Do forgive my friend here. He has quite the talent of babbling and drowning out other voices and people. Don't you, Isby?"

Isben flinched at the molested version of his name and frowned when Francis pet his jaw. He forced a smile full of teeth at Francis. "Oh, Franny, you flatterer."

"Did I mention that Isby and I share a room at the College? If you know what I mean," Francis added in a lower tone, his fingers circling around the hair on Isben's chin.

"Franny, you shouldn't," Isben hissed.

"Aha!" Francis chortled and swatted Isben's rump. He kept his hand on his backside, and when his fingers started kneading him through his trousers, Isben's ears turned a bright pink. "Now that I think of it, you wouldn't happen to have one of those... _you know... _love potions on hand, would you?" He gave Isben's behind another squeeze, and the Dragonborn hunched his shoulders.

Wuunferth looked back and forth between the two goons before him. "Get. Out."

"A-are you sure you don't have any? Oh, Isby and I will be so disappointed. How ever will we keep them up—"

"GET. OUT."

* * *

"_Whoo! _Talk about 'great power'!" Francis laughed as he and Isben ran through the Palace of the Kings back to the throne room. "I haven't seen Destruction magicka like that in a long time! Even Marcurio can't cast like that!"

"Have I ever told you that you are warped in the mind?" Isben spat at him. "Gods, that was... that was... _disgusting!" _

Francis shrugged and giggled as they stopped to catch their breaths. "He was a hound ready for the kill! The crunch of the jaws! I had to do _something _to relieve—"

"Don't say 'relieve,'" Isben groaned.

"Well, we're safe now, yes? And have _I _ever told _you _that you have the boniest bum I've ever felt? Dibella, you have nothing for a woman to hold on to!"

"W-what?" Isben looked at his backside over his shoulder and frowned.

"You might have the Nordic shoulders, Benny, but you have yourself one Bosmeri bottom."

"Leave my Bosmeri bottom alone," Isben huffed. "We have to tell Jorleif of the news. We have proof now, and we can finally put this criminal behind bars." He straightened his clothes out and made his way toward the throne room. "I can feel your eyes on me, Francis, and I don't like it."

Francis pinched his lips to keep from laughing. "Sorry. It's just... _bony."_

* * *

**A/N continued:**

**I never liked Blood on the Ice since you could skip so many quest steps, and me being a fool, I arrested Wuunferth -.- I hope you all enjoyed the twist I put in it (and the twist isn't over, yet!)**

**Sorry that this chapter didn't really have any Shêza in it! Maybe next chapter we'll see more of her? ;) Who knows?**

**2/19/13: I received a message today by someone wondering how exactly you pronounce 'Shêzanaré.' So, here's the pronunciation:**

Shez ('e' as in 'set')-awn (like in 'yawn')-aw (as in 'awesome')-ray. There are four syllables in her full name, but only two in her pet name, 'Shêza.' Technically, Shêza is not pronunced 'Shay-zuh'; rather, it's pronounced 'Shez-uh.' However, I always imagine my characters saying Shay-zuh instead of Shez-uh when they call her by her nickname.

**And I might as well say this about Ivor's name, too. 'Ivor' and 'Ivar' (yes, like Ivarstead) are the same names, only different spellings. You don't say I-VAR-stead, so you don't say I-VOR. It's almost as if it's spelled like 'Iver' instead of 'Ivor.'**


	26. Two Is Company

Disclaimer, disclaimer. Sorry for the sort of late update, readers! I've been busy with projects and exams, so I haven't had much time to work on a new chapter! But I'm back! This is my longest chapter yet, and hopefully I will never reach this wordlength again. Ugh. Too much. After this chapter, we might head back to Shêza's home and see what the Black-Coats are up to. I know there are Ivor-lovers out there who might feel a bit Ivor-deprived. Sosorry :D As always, enjoy! And Happy Easter!

* * *

_A breeze disturbed the silence in the forest—_

Shêza turned her head to the side when she felt something tickle her cheek. It was a feather-light touch—tender, warm, and pleasant. She tried to open her eyes, but it was as if they were sealed with wax. Her eyelids refused to cooperate, and they felt as if they weighed as much as a crate of bricks. However, she did manage to utter a sound from the back of her throat, her tongue feeling thick and rough like sandpaper, and she was rewarded with another tickling touch.

—_the leaves in the trees rustling, the wind carrying with it the scent of prey. She inhaled, her body quivering when she smelled the elk. Saliva oozed from the corners of her mouth, and she licked her chops before dropping to all fours and creeping along the shadows, ever careful not to make the smallest of sounds._

Opening her senses, she took in a whiff. She would have furrowed her brow if her body was in a healthier state—just _why _did she feel so vulnerable? She knew that scent, and she knew now what was touching her: fingers.

Fingers stained from years of alchemy.

Her stomach flipped as she registered she was not standing up. She was on her back, but what she was resting on was foreign to her. She knew she was not on the ground or floor of a building; no, she felt elevated. The surface was too soft, and she sank in it a bit. She tried to sit herself up, but the only action she could accomplish was a twitch in her fingers. She groaned again, not at all liking this situation.

"_Shh."_

She opened her mouth to speak, to tell him that she wanted nothing to do with this soft, cushion-like surface. That, and she wanted her arms and legs back. Her beastblood stirred in annoyance; wolves were not meant to be paralyzed or caged in their own bodies.

_Secunda was bright, her moonlight exposing the forest just enough for her eyes to lock onto the elk. The beast was grazing, unaware that its death was just a handful of feet away. Anticipation sparked throughout her entire being, and she could not help but to pant in excitement, not caring that the elk heard her breaths and became rigid and alert._

Vertigo overtook her as those fingers caressed the back of her neck—at least, it _felt _like the back of her neck—and lifted her head up—up off of what, she could only guess. She wanted to whimper in relief when cool water ran down her throat. With her tongue no longer feeling like a breadloaf that had been stale for two eras, she licked her lips. Her fingers gave another twitch when this time, instead of water, she tasted something foul beyond comparison. She gagged, she knew she did, but he was determined that she drink every drop of whatever in Hircine's name he was forcing her to down.

_It followed its first instinct._

The beginnings of a growl brewed in her throat, but it came out as a wheeze. Her teeth lightly clicked together as she felt pressure build in her gums. The wolf's hold on her was interrupted when sudden pain coursed through her body.

_It ran. Away from her, the danger, and toward the thicker parts of the forest, hoping to lose her in the twisting trees and branches. Her body responded to the challenge: the hair on the back of her neck rose, her lips retracted as her pants intensified, and her legs carried her that much closer to her objective._

It was light: blinding, utterly pure white light. He had pulled back an eyelid, and all she could make out was white. No other color, no image—not even an outline. For a moment, she panicked, wondering if she was blind. Her toes and fingers tapped against the bed, the fear in her veins giving some feeling back to her body.

"Easy. You'll hurt yourself."

_She had it, now. She sprang forward, her claws digging and ripping into the elk's flank, forcing its hind legs to buckle and bring the beast down. It tried to buck, but a quick smack threw its antlers away from her. She climbed over its back, her claws leaving lines of red along its body. She opened her mouth—_

She would have laughed at the ridiculousness of the statement if she could. _He _was hurting her. As if he could read her thoughts, the light vanished, and she was once again bathed in purple hues. She tried to lift her head up, but a hand on her shoulder stopped her.

"It's too soon. You still need your rest."

Again: did he _not _know how foolish he sounded? She was through with resting. How could any werewolf sleep with the wolf prowling in their mind, growling and snapping at shadows? His next action confused her, as he cradled her neck once more. Before she could discern what his intentions were, her lips were nudged open, and down came another unappetizing liquid. She grunted, thinking herself ever the foolish hopeful—_wishful thinking, no?—_and let him rest her head back onto the pillow. Her mind started to separate from her body again, and before she could lose herself completely to darkness, she heard him.

"Sweet dreams of the Hunt, Shêzanaré."

—_and sank her teeth into its neck._

* * *

"She keeps making sounds," Francis said with a yawn as he stretched out on a chair.

Isben tucked the blanket around Shêza and wore a smile that Francis did not see. "Let us hope that she is having a good dream, then."

"Hmph." Francis twisted his body, cracking the bones in his back. "I know why _I _make sounds in my sleep," he said with a suggestive lilt in his voice. He smirked when Isben's ears turned a light shade of pink. "Hopefully she's not having any of _those _dreams—actually, I think they might help her disposition toward anything and everything on Nirn. Go forth and dream, Dragon-Lady, go forth and dream. You have mine and Dibella's blessings."

Isben shook his head and busied himself with preparing another potion. "She shouldn't have woken up so soon. Her body's resisting the antidote's effects."

Francis wiped a finger under his nose and studied Isben. "Maybe it's in her blood," he said carefully.

"Perhaps she's had this antidote before?" Isben thought to himself, too occupied with his work and thoughts to pay Francis any mind. The thief also suspected his short lapses of sleep had something to do with his poor focus.

Francis yawned again, not bothering to cover his mouth. "As entertaining as it is watching you pulverize ingredients, I think it's time Little Francis and I hop to bed."

"Yes, yes," Isben said over his shoulder. "Go back to your room."

"You'll be fine here?" Francis asked. Even so, he stood from his chair and turned his body toward the door.

"Mm-hm. The Butcher's behind bars; she's safe now."

"And thank Dibella," Francis said. "A shame if those legs were suddenly removed, no? Those long, nice legs." He huffed and jutted a lip out. "I wish I had nice, long legs." When Isben didn't respond, Francis shrugged and took his leave.

Isben swayed on his feet and leaned against the table he was using as a makeshift alchemy station for support. He rubbed his eyes with one hand and blinked the sleep from his eyes. He fought his body's plea to sleep, but as he considered collapsing into the chair and finding some shut-eye, his attempts seemed more and more pointless. Five minutes couldn't hurt, and surely even a few hours would be harmless—

He looked at Shêza and creased his brow. The bruises around her eyes and her swollen shoulder were ugly reminders of what could have been, and they strengthened his resolve to stay awake. With a shake of his head, he turned back to his work and finished his antidote. He nearly spilled the potion over when a pang shot through his forehead. He paused abruptly and brought his fingers up to his temples, delicately prodding at his skin. His heart thudded a beat faster when more of that stinging pain erupted in his mind, this time behind his eyes. He sucked in a breath, hoping to calm his trembling body, but he choked when something clawed at his throat.

His vision in one eye went black and his skin felt like an oven as it heated up to unbearable levels. He'd felt that intense heat before—able to burn bricks and turn them into ash. With a start, he chanced glancing down when he felt something dig into his neck. Once he did look, the sight alone making him fall to his knees and then onto his side, he wished he never did.

He was petrified to see that his own fingers had drawn blood from his throat.

* * *

_Fevers are most disorienting, _Petra concluded as her head throbbed and skin burned. She didn't dare to open her eyes completely; she settled with just peeping her eyes open into a squint. The candlelight reflected off of the sickroom ceiling was too much to tolerate. That, and she had a feeling that if she opened her eyes, her vision would twist and turn in the strangest of dances and she would hallucinate again.

She'd never hallucinated before—well, there was that one time when she mistook a stick as a piece of jerky, but that was prompted by an empty, grumbling stomach—and though the images confused her, she found some comfort in seeing him of all people wiping her brow with a damp cloth. Sometimes she'd hear him play his flute (he'd improved vastly since he was a boy), and other times she'd pick up his baritone voice murmuring a nursery rhyme. She knew he hummed time to time, when no one was listening to him or when he thought no one would hear him, like whenever he fletched arrows.

It was silly, she knew it; just a foolish female's equally foolish imagination.

Apart from her burning skin and her sweaty hair matted to her neck and forehead, there was an agitating pulsing at the small of her back. She tried shifting into a more comfortable position, but regretted the action once her sensitive skin protested from the unwanted friction. Sighing, she tried rubbing her back. The effort was too much for her, and she huffed as she moved her arms back on either side of her body. That was when she smelled it.

She knew that somewhere out there, there was a Divine or Daedra laughing at her. _Probably Hircine, _she thought with a frown. After all, she was a useless hunter and an even more worthless werewolf. On top of the smells of sickness, sweat, and urine, there was the smell of her monthly cycle. She wanted to curl up—she would have, if her body wasn't in such a poor state—and hide under her furs that were now sticky and soiled. Just how long had she been this miserable, and when was the last time someone changed her furs? She sighed. _Of course. Don't be silly, Petra. _With her in the sickroom and unable to tend to her duties, the other servants' workloads probably doubled. There was no time to spare for the lame female.

Deciding that this just would not do, she slowly pushed her covers down and stood on shaking legs with her furs bundled in her arms. She could bathe in the sanctuary where the river leaked through the cracks, but she knew better. Not only did she risk contaminating a youngling with her ill health, but she knew that she was not welcome there. Just thinking about the frowns and sneers the other females would give her made her shoulders hunch. That meant one last option: the river. She felt the fine hairs on her arms and legs stand on end in anticipation of the icy, unpleasant water.

She leaned against the cave wall for support and slowly inched her way out of the sickroom, whimpering softly all the while. She was thankful that the sickroom was the closest chamber to the entrance of the Black-Coats' sanctuary, and was even more thankful when she didn't bump into anyone of her pack. Once she was outside, she knew why no one was up and about; anyone with a sane mind wouldn't be at this hour.

She trudged through the tall grass and paused once she made her way to the riverbank. She _knew _Hircine was guffawing and laughing at her, for a pile of laundry and a bowl of crushed mountain flowers sat there, as if waiting for her. Or maybe it was just her imagination. Shaking her head at the laundry, she crept toward the riverbank and dipped a toe in the water. She twisted her face into a scowl. Frigid. Just as she knew it would be.

Taking in a deep breath to steel herself, she scurried into the river with her furs, immediately folding her shoulders into herself and feeling her body's reaction to the river. Without wasting any time by fretting over herself, she scrubbed her furs clean as best as she could, and then tended to herself. The cold water, though uncomfortable, made her fever tolerable. She was still warm beyond all reason, and she knew better than to think that a quick dip in the river would cure her, but it was soothing nonetheless.

She shifted her weight to one leg, then paused as an idea occurred to her. Her feet slid from the ground, and she paddled in place. With the water holding her up, it made her feel weightless and eased her cramps. The only downside was that her arms and legs were becoming sore from the effort of staying afloat. By their own accord, her limbs stopped moving, and she gently floated about the river. She didn't feel her furs slip from her grasp—or maybe she did and just couldn't bring herself to care. But before she knew it, she'd tilted her head back and closed her eyes, oblivious to the world except for the sounds of the river. It was hypnotic, she decided, hypnotic but welcoming all the same.

She didn't hear someone shout her name or the splash they made as they dove in the river after her.

* * *

"One, two, three," Francis said as he pointed at his chest, "four, five, six? Yes, six. _Six _bites! And not the kind I enjoy! Something was chewing on me last night."

"Maybe you have fleas," Vimund said as he tore a chunk out of a loaf of bread. "Aye. Wouldn't be surprised."

Francis huffed and crossed his arms. "Maybe _you _have fleas. Ever think of that? They could be making babies this very moment in your chest hair, and you wouldn't know it." He slumped in his chair and blew his lips out. "I miss the tavern wench. She kept the covers clean and the bed warm."

Vimund rolled his eyes. "Quit whining, Francesca, and make yourself useful." Before Francis could protest, he'd shoved a plate of fruit and bread in his hands. "Go downstairs and give the Dragonborn his breakfast."

"What, am I the serving boy now? Benny's completely capable of serving his own breakfast, thank you very much." When Vimund still wore a look that said he wouldn't take 'no' as an answer, Francis sighed and dragged himself down to his room, muttering to himself all the while. He nudged the door open with his boot and let himself into the room. "Room service, courtesy of—by Sanguine and Dibella, Dragonborn. You look _awful."_

Isben waved Francis quiet and continued hovering over Shêza, occasionally pulling back an eyelid or checking her breathing. Francis set the plate of food down and looked over Isben's shoulder as he propped Shêza against himself. "Everything alright, Benny?" the thief asked as he watched Isben empty another potion down her throat.

"She's waking up," he said.

"Oh," Francis mused. "That's good, yes?"

"No," he said with a shake of his head. "It's still too early for her—she's resisting the sleeping draught."

"Well, give her some more, then."

"No. Too much, and she might... Well, it won't be good."

Francis eyed the bags under the Dragonborn's eyes and the odd bruise forming on his temple. Francis narrowed his eyes and asked, "You didn't sleep well last night, did you?" When Isben didn't reply, Francis shrugged. "I didn't, either. I discovered a little surprise in my bed, and the proof is all over my chest. This will _not _tide well with any lady-friends of mine."

When Francis continued to ramble on about his chest, Isben shot him an irritated look that suggested if the thief didn't shut his mouth in the next five seconds, he'd be without a tongue. The idea pleased a part of his mind—pleased, but certainly did not appease, as he felt something alien in him stir in annoyance when he did not bring imagination to life. Before Isben could analyze this mood swing, she groaned and turned her head into his shoulder.

"Take cover, the Dragon's slumber is at an end," Francis whispered. Isben opened his mouth, feeling the Word sear its way toward his throat, and was just angling his face toward Francis when he caught a slight movement from the corner of his eye. Shêza blinked once, twice, and then thrice before closing her eyes again. She scrunched her face up before slowly opening her eyes again.

Francis held his breath, certain that she was going to claw one of them to pieces. He strategically hid behind Isben.

"Shêzanaré?" Isben said quietly. Her eyes flitted in the direction of his voice, but they did not focus on him. "Can you hear me, Shêza?" She made a sound at the back of her throat as an answer. "I need you to relax—" His words went ignored as she thrashed her head side to side, her fingers and toes twitching as feeling swarmed back into them. She knocked her head against his shoulder, and she blinked to clear her mind of her cloudy vision. She felt like needles were pricking every inch of her, and she opened her mouth to howl in outrage. She was mortified when no sound left her, and for a moment, she thought she'd lost her voice, but her vision chose that moment to cooperate with her.

That twat had covered her mouth with his hand—his hand with stained fingers. Her eyebrows knitted together and a spark familiar to him danced in her eyes. She glared at him and tried to growl, but it came out as a muffled wheeze. He never broke their locked gaze, and she blinked when she registered the color of his irises. Did the twat always have a hint of orange to his eyes? She couldn't remember, but then again, she was having trouble thinking to begin with at the moment. She wrinkled her nose at him and had half a mind to bite a finger off, but he shook his head at her.

"Easy," he murmured. "I'm not going to hurt you. I'm going to move my hand away, and you aren't going to screech, yell, shout, or do that howling thing that you do. Understand?" She gave a curt nod of her head, and the both of them stayed true to their word. She licked her lips, frowning when she felt how chapped they were. "Get her some water, Francis."

_Francis? _She knew that name, did she not? It sounded familiar, and hearing it also sounded familiar. But she couldn't put a face to the name—

She didn't have to. The thief peered at her from behind Isben as he handed him his ridiculous dented goblet filled to its dented brim with water. She glared Death at Francis as she took sips from the goblet Isben held for her. She flexed her fingers, wondering if she could leap past the twat and dig her claws into the thief. It sounded like a splendid idea to the wolf inside of her: the little man was feeble prey, hiding behind the Dragonborn, and wouldn't put up a worthy struggle if she clamped her jaws around his neck, snapping it like a twig. She started salivating at the very thought, but that fantasy came crashing to a halt as pain erupted from her shoulder. She knocked the water out from Isben's grasp and spat, clutching at her shoulder. That only caused it to hurt _more, _and she hissed and bared her teeth at Isben when he tried prying her hands away.

"_Stop." _

It was a simple word: four letters, one syllable. But the way he said it commanded every particle of her body to freeze up, and she saw a puff of air escape his mouth, as if he had just exhaled on a cold, wintry morning. Then again, it could have been her vision going wonky once more. She whimpered as he moved her pillows so that she could sit back comfortably. She watched him as he left her bedside to dip a cloth in a basin of... something that smelled quite disgusting.

She growled when he pulled her poncho down to expose her shoulder, but he ignored her as he gently cleaned the area. Her nails were on the verge of becoming claws, but her beastblood simmered down when the pain subsided. She sighed and rolled her head away from him, staring at the side of the room closest to her. She bit back the urge to whine when she felt his presence leave her. She heard him exchange words with the prey—_Francis, the swine—_and soon enough, the thief had excused himself from the room. She heard chair legs scraping against the floor, and she numbly turned her head to look at him.

He uncorked a potion and held it halfway to her, as if unsure whether she'd want to drink it herself or if she'd even let him try to nurse her back to health. He cleared his throat and nodded at the potion. She narrowed her eyes at the concoction. One whiff told her that it would be most horrid to taste, but there was something else she didn't trust about it.

He sighed and slouched his shoulders. "It's not a sleeping potion, but it might make you sleepy."

She growled.

"It will help, though," he said, bringing the potion an inch closer to her. "I promise," he added as she still looked skeptical. Finally, she reached over and took the potion from him. She sniffed it a few times, her nose wrinkling further after each sniff, and slugged it back in one go. He offered her the plate of food, and when she saw the snowberries, she arched an eyebrow and snatched the tray from him. He was mesmerized that she was partial to the sour-sweet taste of the berries, but he supposed stranger things have happened. As she popped berry after berry into her mouth, licking her fingers after each one, he leaned back in the chair and closed his eyes.

He didn't know when she was done scarfing down her food like a starved hound, but he felt the weight of her gaze on him. He forced his eyes open and kept his gaze locked with hers. She was nestled in the pillows, looking content. Not calm, not peaceful, just content. He knew that if she wanted to, she could topple him and send him into next week. That was just who Shêzanaré was, and he doubted that there was ever a moment when she allowed herself to be completely at ease.

"You were out for days," he said to break the silence between them. She blinked and turned her head a bit. "You were poisoned."

_Poisoned? _She frowned at this news. She didn't remember being poisoned, and when he asked her if she did, she shook her head. She remembered snow and being angry. She closed her eyes and took in a deep breath. Yes, there was much snow—_Windhelm- _and she was angry. At him. Though she couldn't remember why.

She vaguely remembered someone touching her, and on their own volition, her fingers strayed to her throbbing shoulder and gently traced circles around it. There was someone—_a woman. _Was it a woman? It could have been a man. She tried to picture their face, but each time she did, the person had a different appearance. Sometimes the person morphed into the thief—_Francis—_other times the Nord Companion—_Vimund—_and then finally into the Dragonborn—_the twat._

"Don't," Isben said, putting his hand on the bed. He didn't dare touch her. She opened an eye to scrutinize him. "Don't rush it," he clarified. "You're already exhausted. Give your mind a rest."

_Rest. _She'd done enough of that in the past few days. Her muscles were stiff from disuse, and her body felt limp and weak. It was not wise for predators to expose their vulnerabilities, let alone even _have _vulnerabilities. To do so would quickly reverse the role of predator into prey, and the wolf in her would not allow that. Ignoring his protests, she swung her legs over the bed and used him as a prop. He didn't make it easy, as he tried everything in his power without hurting her to lay her back down on the bed, but she would not have it. She growled and swatted his hands away each time he tried to stop her from standing up. Finally, he gave up, but not without giving her a disapproving yet worried look.

It'd been some time since someone looked at her like that. Her parents often did when she was a child and did not follow their rules, like that one time she and Ivor threw a beehive buzzing with life at Nuel—

Actually, Ivor threw it. She watched and encouraged him, if she recalled correctly.

"Please, Shêzanaré. Your body can't—"

"Walk," she said with a cough. She scrunched her face up at the hoarse sound of her voice. "Need... to walk." He shook his head but complied as he led her to the second floor of the inn where Vimund and Francis sat at the far table. Francis was too busy reading a letter to pay them any mind, but Vimund's eyebrows shot up as he spotted the two of them. He stood from his seat and offered it to Shêza.

"You're awake, Miss Shêzanaré!" he said with a chuckle. He gave her a friendly smile and gave Isben a glance when he walked away from the table. "You had us all worried, aye. We thought the poison had finished you off."

She rested her head on her folded arms and traced the grain of the wooden table with her eyes. For a hunter to be 'finished off' by mere poison was... a disgrace. Her face soured at the thought. She was meant to die either a Hunter's or Nord's death, not by pathetic poison. Ivor would laugh at her if he saw her now.

"You're so entertaining when you sleep, lady," Francis purred from across the table. Shêza glared at him. "You make all these whimpering sounds, and I have to wonder: would you have pawed the air if you could? I'd bet fifty septims that you would."

Her glare intensified when he laughed, and before she could consider leaping across the table to scratch his eyes out, the twat chose that second to return to the table, a cup of—

Her eyes lit up at the sight of the cup of tea he placed in front of her. "Snowberry," he said. "Apparently it's popular in Windhelm. And it's all they had." She hummed and accepted the tea from him, wrapping her hands around the cup and delighting in its soothing warmth.

"How _cute," _Francis sneered. He yelped when Vimund tipped his chair over. "Oy, Benny. We have to do something about this abuse aimed toward me." He scrambled to his feet and straightened himself out. "But at another time, of course. You see, it's time I take my leave."

Shêza smiled into her cup and took a sip of the tea.

"Oh?" Isben asked, his eyes not straying from the contented look Shêza wore.

Francis nodded. "I received a letter from a courier." He held up his hand, revealing two letters, one with the Riften crest on it, and the other with the Whiterun emblem. Before Isben could ask, he'd stashed the letters away. "My... _associates _require my immediate presence. It wouldn't be good for me or for them if I dallied."

"Associates?" Vimund asked, crossing his arms. "Just what kind of associates, Francesca?"

"Oh, you know," Francis said, waving a hand in the air, "just the lonely desperate folk of Riften. The ladies are just heartbroken with me," his words faltered a bit, "stolen away."

"We still have to help Vimund with his mission," Isben said.

"Yes, yes, that." Francis twisted his lips and shifted on his feet.

"You don't want to help, do you."

The thief sighed and slouched his shoulders. "Not really, no. Creeping in a cave full of... _icky _things doesn't really sound appealing."

"Pansy," Vimund grunted. "Girlish milk-drinker." Francis pursed his lips together and tapped his foot.

"That's too bad, Fran," Isben said, shrugging his shoulders. "You know, it's a very old cave. There's probably some treasure and loot in there." Francis blinked and raised his eyebrows at this. "If you really have to leave, we'll split the loot with you and have a courier deliver it to Riften. But you know," Isben said, scratching his chin, "we're bound to miss any treasure chests. We don't have the eye for it. There could be gold, gems, ancient artifacts, maybe a rare vintage or two." Francis licked his lips and crossed his arms over his chest to keep from squirming.

"Or maybe maps to long-lost treasure that could fetch a fortune," Isben continued, still rubbing his chin in thought. "A once in a lifetime opportunity, I'd wager." He stole a glance at Francis, and it was all the Dragonborn could do to keep from smirking when the thief bit his lip and stood up and down on the balls of his feet. "But you have people waiting for you, places to go—it's all understandable. We don't want to land you in any trouble, even if you have light pockets."

Isben placed a hand on Francis's shoulder and started ushering him out of the inn. "So, you'd best be off, now. Don't want to be late and keep your people waiting, no? Dibella watch over you on your travels, and—"

"Hold it right there, Isben Dragonborn." Francis stopped in his tracks and stressed each syllable with a poke to Isben's chest. The thief huffed and poked him again for good measure. "Whoever said I was leaving right now? Are the gods going to let loose another World-eating Dragon if I'm a day late? Are the planes of Oblivion going to merge into one if my people have to wait a little longer? _No. _Now you just pipe down and get that idea of me leaving right out of your Nordic Bosmeri head, alright?" Francis cracked his knuckles and licked his lips again. "So, when do we leave?"

"As soon as we're all rested, aye," Vimund said.

"No," Shêza said abruptly. She wobbled as she stood up from her chair and growled a warning at Vimund when he reached out to steady her. Several of the other patrons turned their heads toward her. "No," she repeated when Isben's face become stern and disapproving. "We leave now." To idle about for another second would not only be unbearable, but it would be a disgrace to her heritage. Something stirred in her blood, demanded that she move her body and be out on the Hunt once more. Clearing out a cave for those breast-suckling Companions would appease her lycanthropy, if only a little.

Isben sighed when the resolution did not waver in her eyes. "Fine," he said, throwing his hands up. "Fine."

* * *

"And that's why they say 'gentleman,'" Francis explained to Vimund as he trotted alongside the burly Nord. Isben and Shêza lagged more than a few paces behind them, the former having to frequently slow her pace down and take a brief rest. "You see, 'gentleman' used to be two distinct words, but over the centuries, they became slurred together. The phrase was originally 'genital man,' but nowadays we say 'gentleman' or 'gentlemen.'"

"That's a load of mammoth dung, Francesca. Who told you that?" Vimund looked down at the smaller man and guffawed when he sank into the snow.

"A tavern wench," Francis said. Vimund pulled him out of the snow and set him back on the ground. "She was most charming—and intelligent. You don't find wenches like that too often."

"I think she just wanted your coin," Vimund snorted.

Isben helped Shêza over to a rock, and for once, she didn't growl or snap at him when he took hold of her arm. He suspected it was because she was too exhausted to care. He called for Vimund and Francis to stop and did his best to ignore the impatient look Francis wore.

"Take your time," Isben said when Shêza tried standing again. She narrowed her eyes at him, her gaze darting about his face, but she plopped back down on the rock and took a long pull from her canteen. He bit his lip to keep from scolding her; she shouldn't have pushed herself out of bed, she should have stayed in Candlehearth, and she should _not _have followed them. As if she could read his mind, she bared her teeth at him. It was a poor attempt compared to what her previous growls looked and sounded like.

Francis dug the toe of his boot in the snow, yelping when the snow gave way beneath him. He scrambled to maintain his balance and muttered beneath his breath when Vimund threw his head back in a chortle.

They continued on, the thief and Nord leading the way while the Dragonborn and Shêza inched after them. When the rough terrain and snow opened up into the greens, yellows, and oranges of the crags, crevices and geysers, Francis fell to his knees and kissed the ground. Vimund clicked his tongue and put his boot to the thief's bottom, sending him flying into the White River. When Francis resurfaced and looked to the Dragonborn, the thief slapped his arms against the river and shouted. The Dragonborn was too busy helping the Dragon-Lady along and taking samplings of creep clusters to pay him any mind.

"Here we are," Vimund said once he crossed the river. He rolled his eyes when Francis adjusted his trousers. The thief was mumbling something about 'wet stones' and a 'soggy crotch.' "Cronvangr Cave."

Francis sniffed at the web sacs lining the entrance of the cave. "It's absolutely lovely. Why, I can just _tell _there will be an abundance of gold here—just after the hoards of spiders, of course."

"Don't tell me four pairs of legs frighten ye off?" Vimund laughed again and slapped the thief on the back. Francis didn't so much as flinch; he was too busy eying the carcass of a mammoth ensnared in webs. "Aye! He's scared."

"I don't like spiders," Francis said. He rubbed his knuckles, and Vimund blinked when the thief's face turned green. "_Especially _since I am a pugilist. _Ew._ I have more than half of my mind to leave and go back to Riften. Like three-fourths of my mind. Or better yet, four-fifths."

"This it?" Isben asked as he and Shêza joined them. She had her arm slung around his neck, and though she didn't protest when his arm came around her waist, she frequently eyed his fingers and growled at them. That distraction had her trip and nearly send them both sprawling to the ground.

Vimund shook his head at her, a frown creased in his brow. "Lass, I don't think it'd be wise if you went any further. You could hurt yourself in there." Shêza used Isben as support as she regained her feet, and the Dragonborn frowned when her fingers almost ripped holes in his clothes. "You're not up for this, Miss Shêzanaré," he added when she still looked set on entering Cronvangr. "You're a practical lass. Would it be practical if you went with us and put your life at risk?"

Isben held his breath, praying to all gods that she would listen to Vimund. After moments of tension between the three of them—Francis still stared at the mammoth, his face twitching and expression continuing to sour—Shêza sighed and hung her head. He was right, she knew he was, and what was more, the wolf inside knew, too. It stirred, annoyed that she was giving in, but satisfied that she wasn't about to throw her life away.

With a huff, she took a seat on a rock just outside the cave. Isben slouched his shoulders and stared at the sky, his lips mouthing silent words of thanks.

"Aye," Vimund said. He nodded at Shêza and hefted his axe. "We'll be quick as we can, miss. Until we return, stay clear of trouble and—" When Shêza shot him a glower that could have stopped a Daedric Prince in their tracks, Vimund cleared his throat and waved Isben and Francis to follow him. Isben gave her a small smile before hurrying into the cave after his companions.

Shêza sighed and slouched in her seat. She pulled out her canteen and took another gulp of water. Her spirits dampened and her shoulders hunched when she drank the last drop, and it was instinct for her to whine. It was also instinct to chuck the canteen as far as she could. She growled when the blasted thing landed right on the dead mammoth, and instead of standing up to retrieve it, she growled louder.

Being outside and away from the confining walls of Windhelm, she knew why her lycanthropy had such a strong hold on her—knew why her gums kept splitting, knew why her heart ached, knew why her nails wanted to morph into claws. Just a few whiffs of the air told her why; Secunda would be its brightest and fullest that night, and to ignore Hircine's curse would be impossible.

Still, she couldn't understand why the swine wasn't as affected as she was. He must have felt the same pull she did. He told her before that he had ways of dealing with his lycanthropy, but certainly those ways couldn't have made him immune to Secunda's calling?

Brushing aside the thief's problems, she kicked a loose pebble and sighed. Sitting down felt better than standing up at the moment, and it would take a great deal to dislodge her from her rocky throne.

Or so she thought.

There was something faint on the wind, but her ears picked it up. She frowned and angled her head, her brows nearly becoming one when she recognized the sounds. _Mammoth, _she thought. She knew those beastly roars and bellows mammoths would make—she hunted them, after all, and knew more than a thing or two about an enraged mammoth.

And this mammoth, wherever it was, was _infuriated._

She settled down, ignoring the mammoth's continuous bellows. Some fool out there was probably trying to kill it or one of its herd, and it was none of her business if—

Her eyes shot open when she heard another sound, one that made her blood run cold. She'd know those sounds anywhere, as she grew up with them. To anyone without the lycanthropy, it would just sound like a scraggly wolf howling its head off, but she knew better. _Werewolf. _

She hoisted herself up and climbed through the rocky slopes surrounding Cronvangr. She stood on the tips of her toes and sniffed the air, her ears ringing when she heard more howls. Pinpointing the werewolf's location, she hobbled through the geysers and pools of water, occasionally tripping over a creep cluster. Judging by their scent, it was no one she knew—_thank Hircine—_but her curiosity had the better of her. She remembered that when she was at the Eldergleam Sanctuary, she smelled marked territory of werewolves. Now that she was about to see them in person, she couldn't help but to feel like a thief stumbling upon a mountain of gold.

She saw the mammoth before she saw the werewolf. The mammoth was raging, charging at the rocks and through the geysers, indifferent to the steaming heat and uneven terrain. It bellowed, raising its great tusks and bringing them down. When Shêza darted up another slope to have a better look, she saw the werewolf.

It was male, she decided, when she sized its bulk and fur up. _Male and stupid, just like all of them. _It obviously wasn't a seasoned mammoth-hunter—there was no way in all of the Planes that this male knew what it was doing, if those gashes and punctures in its flesh held any merit. She could watch the mammoth pummel the idiot werewolf to a pulp if she wanted to. She'd be watching for a long while, as the werewolf was forced on the defense and constantly ducked to avoid those sharp tusks and stomping feet. _Leap on its back, you dumb animal._

Learning lessons was important when being a werewolf; the life of a lycanthrope was about life and death, the fit and the weak. This numbskull werewolf was learning quite the lesson.

Or, she could empathize with the werewolf and offer it her assistance. She remembered when she first hunted a mammoth. Ivor was with her, as it was his first time, too. He ended up with a broken collarbone, dislocated shoulder, and snapped knee, while she, on the other hand, went by unscathed and dealt the finishing slice to the mammoth, thereby marking it as her kill. Ivor had brooded for over a month while recovering, refusing to allow anyone in his chambers save for Petra.

Her decision was made for her when the mammoth suddenly caught sight of her while swinging its great head at the werewolf. The mammoth's eyes bulged with rage when it saw her, and without any warning, it charged at her. She stood her ground, waiting until the mammoth had gained enough momentum before springing out of the way. She hissed when she landed on her feet; her muscles locked and bones creaked. Shaking her head, she spat and focused on the mammoth. It was turning around, readying itself for another charge.

She dodged again, narrowly missing its tusks. The other werewolf howled and tried to flank the monstrous beast, but the edge of its tusk caught its shoulder. The werewolf shrieked, the pain making its claws miss the mammoth's flesh by more than a few inches. Shêza huffed and rolled out of the way when the mammoth tried trampling her. She put distance between herself and the mammoth, relying on the idiot wolf to distract it for her.

_At least it's good at something, the whelp. _Rolling her eyes at the werewolf when it tried to land another blow on the mammoth, she hunched her back and let the beastblood flood her body, allowing the lycanthropy to morph her Nordic body into a werewolf's. The relief was better than the purest water, more satisfying than those 'pleasure heights' the thief mentioned in his tales of conquest. She howled, singing with joy at the feeling of release when she was fully changed. Her body trembling with anticipation, she leapt after the mammoth. It rammed its tusks again, and when she jumped out of their range, she collided with the other werewolf.

They landed in a tangle of limbs, the male howling and trying to regain his feet while Shêza hissed and smacked him with the palm of her hand. Once she was freed, she came dangerously close to being introduced to those tusks face-first, and she cursed the idiot male to Oblivion and back. Tired of being on the defense, she charged the mammoth before it could recover and stampede toward them again, and latched her claws into its side as leverage. Its hind feet almost crushed her, but she managed to cling to its side before the mammoth realized what she was doing. It bellowed again, its snout curling high in the air, and thrashed its head back and forth, trying to dislodge her.

She would not have it—not when she could smell victory close at hand. She climbed onto its back, digging her claws in its flesh to steady herself, and bit into its hide, ripping out chunks of meat and fur.

Lycanthropy was dangerous, and not only for villagers and animals, but for the lycanthrope themselves. The feeling of power could consume a werewolf, drive it to the brink of bloodlust and beyond, and turn it into a mindless beast that hunted for sheer thrills and the taste of blood. Loners usually ended up with that fate, but Shêza was no loner.

As for the other werewolf, she didn't know. But when it decided to help her kill the mammoth, she knew the werewolf was a _complete _beslubbering, boil-brained, milk-livered, toad-spotted, ill-breeding, clapper-clawed _wagtail. _

Its attempts to help her failed. Instead, the mammoth's tusk caught it again, this time on the side of its head. Just from the impact of the blow, the werewolf went soaring away from Shêza and her mammoth and into one of the pools surrounding them. Shêza growled and ripped out more of the mammoth's flesh with new vigor, and soon, she had put the beast down. It was a messy kill; her fur was stained and her claws were full of squelchy tissue and skin. She flapped her tongue when she felt mammoth fur stick to the roof of her mouth.

A whine drew her attention away from her problems to the other werewolf. She moved on all fours to the pool, sniffing around the water. It definitely landed in this particular pool, as the water was bloodied, but where did—

_Ah. There you are. Wagtail. _

It had tried to run off, but hadn't gotten very far. She trotted over to it, sniffing its limp and curled up body. After nudging it with her snout, she deemed it to be unconscious. She whined and poked its cheek with her nose, then growled. She couldn't just leave it here—anything could happen to him. Where there was one mammoth, there were sure to be more, and with mammoths came giants. That, and for a werewolf to be out in the open in broad daylight was unwise. There was more than a handful of people in Skyrim who hunted her kind.

The fur started receding from its body. She rolled him onto his back, knowing that position would put less strain on his morphing muscles and bones. Its limbs snapped and shrank out of their lycanthrope shapes, and soon enough, Shêza was not looking at a wolf, but at a man.

A man that must have been the most appealing male in all of Skyrim.

* * *

A/N continued:

So, what's all this talk about Shêza and Isben being a thing? Hmmmmmmm? I don't see it. ;)

And the mammoth scene was inspired by one of my Skyrim adventures. I was riding Shadowmere through the geysers near the Eldergleam Sanctuary and Bonestrewn Crest, and a mammoth suddenly spawned right on top of me (I hate it when they do that, or when they fall out of the sky randomly). Shadowmere can only run so fast when a mammoth charges him D;

And lemme clear a couple of things up. When Shêza refers to Isben as a 'twat,' she is not calling him a vagina. That's the slang definition of the word. The other definition is a 'foolish and despicable person,' and this is the definition that should be associated with the word whenever she uses it. As for 'wagtail,' wagtail is a type of bird. I just liked how it sounded, considering we were talking about werewolves. Wagtail.


End file.
